


A Raising In The Sun

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scooby Gang discovers Magnus Bryce's plan to Raise Buffy using the Scroll of Aberjian, and the race is on to stop him--but Willow has other ideas...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. Thanks to L.A. Ward for the plotting help, the Bloody Awful Poet Society and the Redemptionista Writers list for beta reading, and Aurelio Zen for the Latin. All the magic rituals are stolen from the show or made up out of my very own head, so don't try raising the dead at home. That trick never works.

The rain had stopped, but the sky overhead was still mantled with clouds that reflected the city lights and threw an eerie reddish glow over the midnight landscape of downtown Sunnydale. "Come on, you bloody bastard," Spike crooned. "I know you're out there. I can smell you." He hefted the battleaxe. "Come on, Daddy's got a lovely prezzie for you..."

The only answer was a soft, rumbling growl, so low that he felt more than heard it. He slunk noiselessly along the alley, axe at ready. Spike preferred hand-to-hand fights when he could get them, but his previous run-in with a Ghora demon had convinced him that a big hunk of metal would be a valuable asset in dealing with them in the future.

He hadn't expected to have to deal with Ghora demons ever again, actually, though he supposed that the eggs should have been a clue otherwise. _Should have smashed the lot of them while we were down there the first time._ Unlike their massive, sedentary mother, the young were quite mobile, and extremely hungry. This was the second one he'd tracked down tonight, and he was still limping from the damage the first one had done. Apparently their favored method of attack was to hamstring their prey. He halted, fingers tightening on the haft of the axe. He could see its eyes blinking redly down at the end of the alley now, reflecting the neon light from the run-down hotel across the street. A male, from the glimpses he'd gotten earlier of its coloring. About pony-sized. A lot smaller than its mother, a little smaller than the sister whose body was going to provide a big surprise for the opening crew at the gas station on the corner of Fourth and Main. Piece of...

The young Ghora exploded out of the pile of rubbish, all six taloned feet leaving gouges in the pavement. Faster than its sister, too. Cardboard boxes and wilted lettuce flew wildly across the alleyway. It covered the twenty yards between its nest and the vampire with the speed of an onrushing diesel engine, giving vent to a hair-raising bellow. "Oh, sh-!" Spike leaped back and to the side, swinging the axe in a vicious arc which intercepted the charging demon's path at about the level of its knees. The blade sank into demon-flesh with a _thok!_, embedding itself in bone. A spray of blue-violet blood spurted across the dank cement and the Ghora's left foreleg buckled, sending it lurching into Spike and driving the axe-handle into his stomach.

It hurt like hell; he could feel the bruise spreading, but he had no breath to get knocked out of him. Spike retained a death-grip on the axe as the demon's momentum barreled the two of them into the brick wall. He'd injured it badly; the left foreleg hung uselessly, and its blue-and-yellow-striped sides heaved in agony. Unfortunately, it still had five working legs left. He braced himself against the crumbling brickwork behind him, tearing the blade free of its mooring. The wounded Ghora stumbled away, then wheeled with astonishing agility and charged him again. One of the three blunt heads at the end of the long snaky necks opened its gaping maw and champed madly, displaying rows of serrated ivory teeth. The vampire crouched, snarling right back.

"I," he whipped the axe up, "am bloody sick," he flung himself sideways, not quite swiftly enough to avoid the razor-sharp teeth as they clamped down on his already wounded thigh, "and TIRED," he brought the blade of the axe slicing down with all his strength on the juncture of the Ghora's neck and primary shoulders, "of fighting things which're FASTER THAN I AM!" The demon bellowed again and Spike wrenched the axe free and hit it a third time. This time he felt bone crack beneath the impact, and the creature's bellow became a gurgle and then died away as it collapsed segment by segment onto the pavement.

Spike collapsed on top of it and lay there panting. He didn't really need to pant, but at times like this it seemed to be the right thing to do. After a bit he sat up and gingerly began to pry the Ghora's jaws out of his leg. _Bloody hell, I go through more clothes this way..._ The teeth were loose in the cartilaginous jaw, like a shark's, and several of them remained embedded in the muscle of his thigh. Damn. He'd have to pry them out before he healed right over them.

He got to his feet, limping more than a little now, and raked one hand through his rain-wet hair. He bent over and began working the axe free of the Ghora's backbone. The adrenaline high of the kill was fading already. There wasn't much satisfaction in killing a Ghora; they were little more than animals. Big, dangerous animals who would eat a human, or a vampire for that matter, if they got the chance, but tackling one was like going after a mountain lion. You couldn't take it personally. Couldn't hate it. Very quickly the rush of violence drained away, leaving...

Not the raw, aching misery of the first week, when he would have let the sun take him without a whimper if the others hadn't taken it in turn to see that it didn't. Not the self-destructive rage of the weeks after that, when he'd gone out looking for death in less obvious forms. By now, four months after they'd lowered her into the ground, the pain was chronic rather than acute, a wound that would never completely heal but which had dulled enough to allow him to get up in the evenings and go through the motions.

He straightened up, turned to the brick wall, and very deliberately slammed his fist into it. Brick crumbled and chips of brick and mortar flew, and Spike doubled over with a hiss of agony. He didn't want to get over her, damn it. Time had no business healing some wounds.

"Hey," a voice said from the mouth of the alley. "Not bright."

He looked up. He couldn't remember the name of the vampire standing there, though he'd seen him around Sunnydale before--at Willy's, in the days back when he'd been welcome at Willy's, and before that at the Master's old digs. Not likely one of the Master's get. Old Bat-Nose, by all accounts, had been fussy about his progeny, turning only select individuals at certain propitious times. This fellow was dark and broad-shouldered and Byronic-looking, so he was probably one of Darla's. She was always turning chaps who reminded her of Angelus. Spike considered anyone reminiscent of Angelus a git of the first order. He wondered if he should try staking this particular git now or wait till his leg healed a bit. Lacking a heartbeat, he didn't bleed as profusely as a human would have from the same wound, but if the other vamp ran he might not be able to keep up just yet.

"Still carrying on the Slayer's good works, eh, Spike?"

Spike shrugged, yanked the axe free, and straightened up, slinging it over one shoulder. He flexed his injured hand. He'd probably broken a knuckle. A van drove by on the street behind the newcomer, tires humming on the wet asphalt. "A bloke's got to kill something," he said mildly. "Any reason it shouldn't be you?"

The dark vampire studied him. "Daniel never came back to the lair yesterday."

Who the hell was Daniel? He'd never known many of the Sunnydale vampires very well, even during the few months four years back when he'd been Master, before the Slayer had gone and dropped an organ on him. _Christ, the Slayer dropping an organ on me now qualifies as a fond memory._ He'd completely lost track of who was who in the last year. They were all interchangeable, anyway, a rabble of raw fledglings punch-drunk with bloodlust and not a thimble's worth of personality among the lot of them. "I think you've got me confused with someone who cares, mate."

"Oh, you've got reason to care, Spike," the dark vampire said softly. "Now that the Slayer's gone, it's normally your fault when one of us goes missing. Lissette and Trina disappeared tonight, and I decided I needed to have words with you."

Spike snorted. Was tall-dark-and-boring there what passed for a Master in Sunnydale these days? Couldn't have been more than a third Spike's age, and Spike was overweeningly proud of the fact that he was one of the youngest Masters on record. The dark vampire continued, "But..." he waved at the Ghora carcass, "You've got an alibi. I must say I'm surprised. But pleased." He smiled, showing his fangs. "If someone else in Sunnydale is taking out elder vampires, I can't imagine they won't get around to you sooner or later."

"As it's bloody definite you won't?" Spike sneered. "Note how I'm trembling in my boots. If the entire demon population of Sunnydale can't do me in, I'm not going to worry about some johnny-come-lately vampire hunter. Now if you don't mind..."

The van which had driven by a moment before rolled slowly back into view and came to a stop directly athwart the entrance to the alley. The rear doors opened and several men in dark coveralls hopped out. One of them was carrying what looked like a tranquilizer gun. For a moment Spike thought it was a set-up. But the dark vampire's face showed a flash of surprise, and more briefly, fear. The gun went off with a _paff_ of compressed air, and the dark vampire flinched and staggered as the dart struck him, then came to a wobbly halt. He looked stupidly about him, swaying on his feet but not falling. Without circulating blood any drug took longer to diffuse through a vampire's body.

"Is that another one?" one of the overalled men called, pointing in Spike's direction. Spike considered pretending to be an innocent tourist, though the axe, the dead Ghora, and the fact that he was standing on a leg injury that would have had a human fainting on the pavement from blood loss might possibly poke a few holes in his web of deception.

The second overalled man, who'd led the now-docile dark vampire over to the van and was scribbling notes onto a clipboard, shrugged. "He's a witness. Take him down."

The man with the trank gun began fitting another dart into it. Spike flashed on a memory of coming to strapped to a cot in a plain white room, and the impersonally curious faces of military doctors bending over him. _No. Not that. Not that, never, ever, ever, die first--_ The men in coveralls were advancing on him confidently. The man with the trank gun raised it and braced the stock against his shoulder, taking careful aim.

Spike flung the axe at him. It cartwheeled into the gun and took a slice out of the man's forearm; he screamed, dropped the gun, and grabbed his wrist. Spike screamed at the same time as the chip embedded in his skull went off, sending punishing shockwaves of electricity through his brain. The lovely rich scent of the wounded man's blood hit him at the same time and his stomach cramped with a mixture of nausea and hunger. He stumbled forward, bowling the second man over and getting another shock for his trouble. He kept his feet through sheer willpower, and by the time he reached the mouth of the alley he was running all out, heedless of the pain that ripped through his leg at every step.

The dark vampire lunged drunkenly for him, fangs bared and eyes flaring yellow. Spike smashed him in the face with his good fist, all the fury and terror in him fueling the blow, and felt bones breaking. The other vampire went down, out cold. Still at a dead run, black leather duster billowing behind him, Spike dodged around the rear of the van as the driver gunned the engine. The rear doors of the van were open, and in the dark interior he caught a glimpse of two huddled, unbreathing forms. Lissette and Trina, most likely. He spared one glance at the license plate, and took off down the deserted street.

A vampire could move across a room almost faster than the human eye could follow, but he couldn't keep that up level of speed for any great distance. After a block or so he was reduced to a pace any merely-human Olympic sprinter could have kept up with. He could hear the roar of the van's engine behind him, and took a sharp left into another alley. Wheels skidded on the slick film of oil and rainwater, and brakes gave a banshee squeal as the van rounded the corner. A chain-link fence blocked the end of the alley; beyond was a vacant lot full of weeds and rain-soaked trash. Spike put on another desperate burst of speed and launched himself upward, grabbing the top rail of the fence with both hands, kicking off of the chain-link with his good leg, and vaulting over the top with, dare it be said, supernatural grace.

He landed less impressively, his injured leg buckling beneath him, and clamped his teeth shut on another scream. The van roared fit to beat the late Ghora demon. It wasn't slowing down. Spike hauled himself to his feet and took off again. Behind him there was a spectacular crash as the van barreled into the fence and ripped it right out of the ground. Shearing, grinding metal noises ensued. Spike turned round and saw the van shudder to a halt, front end smashed in and dragging a tattered cocoon of chain-link.

"I wouldn't try that again with a car built after 1975, ducks!" he yelled, waving at the driver, who was pinned to his seat by the expanded airbag and struggling futilely. Spike gave him a two-fingered salute, turned his back, and sauntered off, limping as little as inhumanly possible until he was out of sight.

He had a few people to talk to before sunrise.

  
*****  


She woke at any little thing these days, so when something rattled at her window Dawn's eyes snapped open. She lay there in bed listening tensely for another noise. It was around five in the morning, and the eastern sky was starting to grow pale. After a moment she heard another urgent tapping, and then someone said "Bloody hell."

At the sound of that familiar North London growl, Dawn relaxed and rolled out of bed, grabbed a robe, and tiptoed over to the window. She fumbled with the catch in the dark for a moment and pulled the window open, glancing nervously in the direction of her father's room as it screeched. He'd always liked to sleep in on weekends, so maybe he'd sleep through this.

Spike was hanging off her windowsill, his pale face pressed against the screen. "Be a love and let us in, Niblet," he whispered. "Sun's up in half a mo'."

Shit. She'd forgotten he didn't have an invite to her father's apartment yet. "Come in, come in, come in!" she whispered, struggling with the screen. It hadn't been intended to open. Spike, having less compunction than she... make that no compunction... about casual vandalism, took the expedient route of ripping it out of the frame entirely, and heaved himself over the sill and into the room like a salmon fighting its way upstream.

"Curtains!" he hissed.

"Stop spazzing!" Dawn hissed back. "It's not even over the horizon yet." She pulled the curtains tight anyway. "Hey. Are you all right?"

Spike was fairly obviously not all right; he stood there in the middle of her room clutching his left hand to his chest, looking even paler than usual. There were a couple of big ragged tears in the right leg of his jeans, and she could see the trembling in the muscles of his thigh when he put weight on it. "What happened to you?" Dawn whispered furiously. She didn't really have to ask--he'd gone out and gotten into another fight, pissed off some creature far higher up in the demonic hierarchy than a mere vampire, and gotten beat up. Again. As if any of that would bring Buffy back, as if her being gone in the first place was his fault and not hers. _Damn him._ He'd been better the last two months. She'd thought they were through this part. At least this time he hadn't been keeping company with Jack Daniels on top of it. "Don't tell me. Sit down and I'll get the first aid kit."

The vampire collapsed onto her bed and Dawn shook her head once, angrily, and stomped out into the hall towards the bathroom. Suddenly she didn't care if her father woke up. _Let him_, she thought viciously, yanking open the medicine cabinet and pulling the little kit out. _I'll just tell him the strange guy in my room was Buffy's boyfriend, hah, no, MY boyfriend, a hundred and forty-some year old punker boyfriend named Spike, that'll teach him-_

Spike was lying flat on his back on her bed when she returned with the first aid kit. "You're such a fucking IDIOT!" Dawn snarled, slamming the kit down on the bedside table and pulling out a roll of bandages and iodine and Neosporin. She didn't know if vampires could get infections, but it never hurt to take precautions. "And you're getting blue demon-goo all over my bedspread."

"Language, Niblet. I'll front you a quarter for the laundrette," Spike mumbled without opening his eyes. Dawn bit her lip. She had perforce become an expert in vampire first aid over the last few months; Spike's normal impulsive-to-the-point-of-self-destruction streak didn't mix well with grief and guilt. She swabbed out the big wound in his thigh first, using tweezers to pull the remaining Ghora-teeth out of the already-healing flesh, then went to work on his hand.

"I can say fuck if I fuckin' want to," Dawn snapped. "And you deserve the idiot. What did you do, punch a brick wall?"

"Would I do something that stupid?" Spike said, wincing as she wrapped the bandage around his swollen hand. Broken bones took a while to heal, even for him. Only a matter of days for something this minor, but... Dawn glared at him and ripped off a piece of adhesive tape with her teeth. She was getting the snarl down pretty well, too. But when she looked at him again the expression on his lean face was so utterly lost that she had to blink back tears.

"I thought you were over trying to get yourself killed," she said huskily.

Spike managed a grin. "Sorry, pet, suicidal tendencies are essential to my charm. But I wasn't trying this time, honestly. Some blighters tried to trank me and shove me in a van, and I objected. Oh, and a couple of baby Ghora tried to nibble on me, but I don't hold it against them."

Dawn gave him a long, sharp look. She could generally see right through him. Spike didn't look good; his face was all drawn and he had dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks were too hollow. But the despair that had lurked in the depths of those blue, blue eyes since Buffy's death was... not gone, but not near enough the surface to really worry her. She nodded grudgingly. She tossed her long brown hair back over her shoulder and began stuffing Band-Aids and scissors back onto the first aid kit. "Is your leg gonna be all right?"

"Right as rain in no time." He patted the blood-stiffened black denim. The wound had been closing, slowly but surely, even as she worked on it. Beneath the bandage there would be a jagged six-inch weal standing out lividly against the pale flesh. By tomorrow night it would be gone as if it had never been. Spike ran a hand over his forehead wearily. "Probably ought to let Will and the others know about this lot. They don't show enough discrimination in victims for my taste."

"I'll give them a call later this morning," Dawn said. She yawned. "You'd better stay here today in case those guys are still looking for you."

"What about..." Spike cocked his head meaningfully at the door. Dawn glanced in the same direction, her mouth hardening.

"I'll take care of Dad. You get some rest. You can probably wash up some without waking Dad up if you're fast. There's blood in the fridge if you're hungry. I told Dad it was a science project."

His look of surprised gratitude was almost too much to bear. "I'll kip on the couch, then. Best not put more nasty thoughts in your dad's head than we can help." He gave her that devilish grin and got up, limping out of the room and down the hall.

_Buffy was so an idiot,_ Dawn thought, and then wiped her eyes furiously. Which had made her sister pretty much even with Spike. They were both idiots. They'd deserved each other.

Which made it even worse that they'd never gotten each other, except for that dumb spell of Willow's last year.

She crawled back into bed and burrowed under the covers, wondering what she was going to tell her father. Spike's appearance didn't exactly inspire confidence in the best of circumstances, and his attitude sucked, and... _Hey, Dad, this is my best pal Spike, and he's a vampire and if I really asked him to, he'd probably kill you in a hot second, even if it did make his head explode_. Well, no, he probably wouldn't kill her father without permission from Buffy, and since that wasn't likely to be forthcoming any time soon... _OK, Dad, you're safe._

Dawn shivered a little, though the room was warm enough. The fact that she could think up stuff like this, even as a joke, made her uneasy. _Am I supposed to be Spike's conscience now Buffy's gone? I don't even know if I can be my own conscience._ No more jokes like that, she decided. She couldn't deny there was a certain secret satisfaction in pondering whether such total be-atches as Shawna Finney in geography would have quite so many cutting things to say about last year's nail polish with Spike's fangs buried in their throats, but what made the thrill a marginally acceptable one was a reasonable certainty that Spike wouldn't go through with it, not all the way, not really, and not just because of the chip.

And it didn't matter if he would or not, he deserved way better of her than to think of him as some sort of personal attack pit bull.

Dawn sighed and glanced at her clock. Almost six, and she wasn't going to get any more sleep this morning. She flung the covers off, crawled out of bed and began getting dressed.

Spike was fast asleep on the couch, curled up under his duster, when she came out into the living room an hour or so later. From the condition of the bathroom sink it looked as if he'd cleaned off most of the demon goo first, and he'd left one of those super-sized plastic soda cups with a congealing film of blood in the bottom on the coffee table. That was about half the supply she'd had on hand, but he always needed more when he was injured, and pig's blood, while apparently providing the minimum daily requirements of whatever it was vampires needed, wasn't exactly what they throve best on. He'd also helped himself to the jelly donuts and the last of the milk. And left the near-empty milk jug in the fridge to fake people out, naturally. "Pig," she muttered fondly, settling for a shredded coconut donut and orange juice. Buffy would wind up hanging out with the only vampire in creation who still liked human food.

Since it was past seven and technically not too early any longer, she called Willow and relayed what little she knew about Spike's midnight adventures. The witch promised to come over as soon as she could.

Dawn was just hanging up the phone when her father emerged from his bedroom, weekend-scruffy in the old plaid bathrobe he'd owned for as long as she could remember. Mom had told her once that it had been the first Christmas present Buffy had gotten him with saved-up allowance money when she was seven. It made her feel funny to realize how worn it looked. He hadn't noticed the immobile Spike-shaped lump on the couch yet. He came over and smiled at her, tousling her hair with one hand. "Da-aad," she complained, twisting away from his hand.

"All right, you're far too old for displays of parental affection. Who're you calling at this hour, Sweetie?"

_ Some parental affection_, Dawn thought mutinously, clenching her teeth. _You couldn't even get home for Mom's funeral. Or Buffy's._ "Willow," she said with all the indifference she could muster. "She's coming over later."

Her father pursed his lips and began dumping spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug. "Willow seems like a very nice girl," he said carefully, "though I'd always been under the impression that she was more one of Buffy's friends."

"She was." Dawn didn't elaborate. "Is this a 'you should have friends your own age' speech? Because I do, you know. You've just never met them because you're never here." She could hear her own voice going all sullen and bitter and didn't particularly care. The Scoobies weren't just friends, they were... blood brothers. Or sisters. Friends were for sleepovers and talking about the Backstreet Boys.

"Dawn..." Her father came over and sat down at the little Formica-topped table and sipped at his scalding coffee. Dawn stared at the tabletop and silently hated it the way she hated all the rest of the tacky furniture in the temporary apartment. Nothing here was right. She wanted to go home. But home was closed up with a 'For Sale' sign pounded into the front lawn. Her father gazed at her, perplexed, uncertain. Faded hazel eyes, lines in his face she didn't remember from six years ago, flyaway brown hair starting to go grey. Starting to get old. Only human. She didn't care. "Dawn, I know this has been very hard on you, but your sister..." He stopped in the face of his younger daughter's hostile glare. "Your sister had a very troubled few years. I'd thought... I'd hoped... she'd turned her life around since college..."

The worst part of it was, of course, that there was a catch in his voice and the hint of tears in his eyes, and if she were even halfway honest with herself Dawn would have to admit that her father had loved Buffy too, and loved her even now, even if he hadn't shown it very well sometimes. But she didn't want to be honest and she didn't want to admit there were any points on his side; she just wanted to hate him with a clean conscience. So she just sat there in contemptuous-teenage-lump mode, watching him flail.

"...I just think that it might be best for you to make a clean separation. We'll be moving back to L.A. soon--"

"What!?" Dawn didn't even try to hide the edge of panic in her voice. She gripped the edge of the table, feeling the ridged aluminum biting into her fingers. "Move to L.A.? Why?!"

Her father rubbed his eyes. Obviously this wasn't a discussion he'd wanted to get into at this point. "Hon, don't tell me this is a big surprise. You know I have to go back to work soon."

"But... but all my friends are here!"

Her father was acquiring the adult-assailed-by-twisted-teenage-logic look. "Sweetie, you'll make new friends."

"JASON'S here!" she wailed. Not that Jason knew she existed at the moment, but he was going to any day now. And there was the Scooby Gang and they were just starting to see her as something other than Buffy's bratty kid sister and there was Spike whom she had to take care of. He was her responsibility, damn it!

"I can't move here, sweetie. And I can't just leave you here..."

"Why not?" Dawn raged, leaping to her feet. "You did it before! You left all of us and Mom's dead and Buffy's dead and I wish I was dead too!"

Hank looked helpless. "Hon..."

She jerked away and strode into the living room. "Don't call me hon! You just waltz in here and ruin my life, you don't get to call me hon."

He got up to follow her and maybe it was the coffee kicking in at last, or maybe it was that Spike was sleep-breathing and starting to snore slightly, but for the first time his gaze lit on the couch and registered that there was someone lying on it. He froze, coffee-cup in hand. "Dawn, honey," Hank Summers said through his teeth, "Who is this, and why is he sleeping on our couch?"

Dawn tossed a casual glance in the direction of the couch. "Spike. He's a friend of Buffy's," she said dismissively. "He ran into some trouble last night and needed to crash, and I told him he could stay here."

Hank looked at the limp figure on the couch, taking in the unruly shock of bleached-blond hair, ripped clothes, and general air of dissolution. "A friend of Buffy's," he repeated. He reached for the curtain-pull.

"DON'T OPEN THOSE!" Dawn shrieked, leaping after him and grabbing his hand. Her father stared at her as if she'd gone insane.

"Dawn, I've had about enough of you this morning," he said, very firmly. "We're going to wake... Spike... up and he's going to leave now." He reached down and took hold of the nearest leather-covered shoulder and shook it. A moment later his determined expression became one of uncertainty, perhaps even a little fear, at the stillness of the body, the lack of human warmth. His hand twitched slightly. Then he moved to shake Spike's shoulder again, harder. No response. Dawn began to feel a little uneasy herself. She knew first-hand that the thing about vampires being comatose in the daytime was a myth; sleepy and snarkier than usual, yeah, but...

"Dad..."

Her father's fingers tentatively brushed against Spike's now-motionless chest. "Dawn," he said, very quietly, "Call 911."

A set of hard cold fingers clamped immovably around his wrist. Dawn bit her lip nervously, but it had to be OK; the chip hadn't gone off so Spike wasn't intending to cause any damage. One winter-blue eye flicked open. "Bit premature," the vampire said. "And mind the coat."

Her father jerked back and Spike sat up in one boneless motion, making no attempt to keep hold of Hank's wrist. He smiled up at her father. Not one of his more endearing smiles, Dawn noted, but a far piece from his 'you're about to die in the most painful way I can think of on short notice' one. Seeing the two of them there together, the living man and the undead one, brought home just how accustomed she'd grown to Spike, how much she took him for granted. He was the most human vampire she'd ever met, even more so than Angel in some ways, sitting there sleep- ruffled and chipped-harmless, with powdered sugar from the purloined donuts all over the front of his shirt. Yet something in that nowhere- near-his-nastiest smile made her father start back, breathing hard.

To his credit, he did no more than that. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave," Hank said firmly. "Dawn's got a busy day ahead."

"Ah?" Spike began his usual automatic rummage through his coat pockets for cigarettes. "You'd be the prat who walked out on Joyce, then? Can't say I'm pleased to meet you." He pulled a not-too-crumpled pack out, shook his head sadly, and straightened it out, eyeing Hank up and down with the air of someone sizing up a steak and finding it wanting. "What was she thinking?" he murmured. "Well, don't let me keep you. I could do with a bit more shuteye." He leaned back with both hands laced behind his head, still smiling serenely. "Got a light, mate?"

Her father blinked. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to call the police."

_ I should tell Dad he was MOM's boyfriend._ "Dad, stop it!" Dawn stamped one foot. "He can't go outside now!"

"He most certainly--"

"Dad, he's a vampire! He'll burn up!"

There was a long pause wherein Spike finally found his lighter and puffed his slightly damaged cigarette to life. Dawn favored him with a disgusted glare; she hated it when he smoked but it was sure to annoy her father, which was a plus. Mom had never let him smoke in the house, maybe she could put her foot down about it later. "Dawn..." her father said at last.

"Are you going to claim Mom never told you about the vampires, or Buffy being the Slayer?" Dawn exploded. "We've known for years! Why do you think they put all those crosses up in the house, huh? Sunnydale's on a Hellmouth, it's crawling with vampires, and he's one of them!" She waved furiously at Spike. "Check his pulse, Dad! You thought he was dead, didn't you?"

"No need for Daddikins to get that personal, pet," Spike observed, blowing a smoke ring. His brows knit in concentration for a moment, and he shifted into game face and bared his fangs. "Grr," he said. He didn't sound awfully enthusiastic about it and Dawn was suddenly struck by the fact that she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him do that. The next moment he was human-looking again. "Convincing, innit?"

What had she felt the first time she'd seen a vampire do that? Scared, she was sure, but the exact flavor of the emotion was long gone. Dawn watched emotions cascade across her father's face: shock, fear, disbelief. But his immanent explosion--or possibly collapse--was averted by a knock on the door. With one last confused look at Spike, he went to open the door. Willow and Tara were standing there on the landing, laptop in tow.

"Hello, Mr. Summers," Willow said, sounding apprehensive. She peered round his shoulder. Tara, standing behind her, waved at Dawn. "Dawn said--Oh, hi, Spike. Is this a bad time?"


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Willow was setting up her laptop on the kitchen table, Spike was pouring himself another helping of Dawn's science project, and Tara was sitting cross-legged on the couch listening intently to everyone else. Hank Summers was fighting a growing sense of unreality with stronger coffee while Dawn gave him the Dealing With Vampires 101 lecture. Dawn was obviously enjoying finally having someone less clueful than herself to instruct in the ways of the supernatural.

"...the most important thing to remember in Sunnydale is never, ever invite a stranger into your house, especially at night. And keep a cross on you. You can't ever trust a vampire."

Hank regarded his daughter for a long moment, looked over at Spike, and coughed. Three pairs of eyes fixed him with reproachful looks of various intensity. "Except Spike," Dawn qualified. "He's cool."

Doing his best to live up to the description, Spike abandoned his inspection of the refrigerator, and sauntered over to set his cup of blood on the coffee table. He dropped down on the couch between Dawn and Tara, casually draping his arms along the back, not quite touching their respective shoulders. Tara rolled her eyes at the possessive male vibes, but there was a very slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and she didn't move away. Hank's frown deepened, and Spike returned the favor with a smirk a notch or two further down the nastiness continuum.

He seldom needed to look for reasons to dislike someone, but Hank Summers came with an oversupply. That the man had left Joyce, the first person to whom Spike had applied the term 'friend' in over a hundred and twenty years, was enough in itself to get him permanently inscribed on the vampire's shit list. He'd compounded the initial faux pas by disappearing into the aether as completely and mysteriously as a fledgling's soul for months when Buffy and Dawn had needed him. Beyond all that, there was just something about the man which rubbed him the wrong way. Dawn, oblivious to the tension, continued, "And Angel, he's OK most of the time, but you have to be careful of him 'cause he loses his soul sometimes and he's in L.A. anyway so forget him."

"Hear, hear." Dawn elbowed him in the ribs. Spike gave her an entirely ineffectual evil glare and she grinned smugly at him. Her father looked on, disturbed at the byplay, until the vampire turned the million mile stare on him and the man's eyes dropped. _Wanker_. Buffy must have been created parthenogenetically.

Tara, apparently deciding that the pissing contest had gone on long enough, twisted a strand of long sandy hair around her fingers and dragged the conversation back to the point. "So these guys with the van--is the Initiative back in town?"

Spike's unbandaged hand involuntarily strayed to the back of his skull. There was no scar beneath the white-blond hair to show where the chip had gone in, nor any evidence of his subsequent efforts to have it taken out. "Not bloody likely. First thing I thought of, but these buggers weren't that well-equipped. That was no military van, and no trained driver." He frowned. "But the big pile of dead demon in the alley didn't phase 'em, and it sounded as if they were picking and choosing older vampires. Or as old as they come in Sunnydale these days."

"That's weird. If I were capturing vampires I'd go for little baby ones." Willow, fiddling with the laptop's adapter, matched his frown. "Unless they need the old ones for some reason because they're more powerful? But that can't be right if they only wanted you 'cause you saw them take the other one out, you're about the oldest vamp in Sunnydale now, plus inconspicuousness is not a thing of Spike. Double plus it's gotten around that you can't hurt humans so you'd think they'd think you were easy pickings."

"Maybe they didn't recognize him?" Tara suggested. There was a general disbelieving silence. She spread both hands. "It could happen!"

"Bastards'll recognize me from now on," Spike growled, nettled. It might have altered in substance slightly over the last several years, but he bloody well still had a reputation.

"Oh, you the vamp," Willow said with a little grin. The laptop beeped. "Here we go, all powered up."

"What are you doing?" Hank asked, sounding as if he didn't really want to know.

The hiss and crackle of the modem connecting filled the room. Dawn said, "We're gonna track them down, Dad. Willow and Tara are witches, but Willow's kind of a hacker, too."

"Sometimes the old ways are best." Willow graced Dawn's father with a beaming smile over the screen of the laptop. "I can't tell you how cool it is you being down with the slayage concept, Mr. Summers. Buffy's mom was always great about it. I was so jealous! My mom's still in denial, and the whole secret identity thing--well, it's fun for awhile but then you just get to the point where it's like 'Aunt Miriam's birthday party, or saving the world?' and the world has seniority even though you wouldn't think it to look at Aunt Miriam. Spike, you have that license plate number?"

Spike took a meditative sip of blood and stared at the ceiling, calling up the brief glimpse he'd gotten of the van's plates. "It began with... 4KEM2. Next number might've been a five. Couldn't make out the last one at all."

Willow nodded. "OK, better than nothing. Hold on and I'll see if I can get into the DMV database."

For several minutes there was an awkward lull enlivened only by the tap of Willow's fingers in the keyboard. Hank sank deeper into his funk. Spike nursed his blood and wondered if he were going to get any more sleep today. "Here we go." Willow reached up and tapped at something on her screen. "There's eight plates that match those numbers registered to addresses within twenty miles of that alley. Darn, no printer... Dawn, do you have a notebook or something?"

"Yeah, in my room. You want the purple one or the green one? Hold on." She bounced to her feet and ran off down the hall.

"Purple!" Willow called after her. At Spike and Tara's bemused looks she said, "Notebook color is fairly vital."

"All right," Hank said as soon as she'd left the room. "Suppose I believe all this bullsh... stuff. God knows it would explain a few of the wilder things Joyce dropped on me over the last couple of years. That doesn't mean I'm 'down with slayage'. It may be shallow of me, but finding out that Buffy supposedly died to save the world instead of in some stupid college dare doesn't make me feel any better. She's still dead, and damned if I'll lose another daughter the same way. Dawn's coming back to L.A. with me as soon as we can get a buyer for the house, and she'll be well out of this. I want all of you to know..." He stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose, obviously hunting for words. "Willow, I'm grateful to your family and Mr. Giles for taking care of Dawn till I could get back to the States, but for her sake I'd like to ask that you stop involving her in this business once we've moved. I'm going to try to give her a normal life--"

"Too late, Summers."

"Shut up, Spike," said Willow, but she didn't look particularly happy herself.

Dawn breezed back in with one of her school notebooks, ripping out a page of blue-lined paper and handing it to Willow. "Here's a pen too. Are we gonna go check them out?"

Spike and Willow each opened their mouths, exchanged looks, and thought better of it. Spike made an 'after you' gesture to the witch. "Not today," Willow said. "Spike needs to heal up, and he can't leave till sunset anyway. Plus Xander's working overtime today, and Anya won't get off work till after three, so why don't we meet at the Magic Box after hours to strategize?" She wrote down the last address with a flourish and folded the paper up carefully and handed Dawn her pen back. "Thanks, Dawn."

Tara nodded. "That's a great idea. 'Cause we have to talk about... stuff."

"Right." Spike finished the last of his blood in a gulp. "Stuff."

Dawn gave the three of them the once-over. "You're trying to ditch me again."

Hank interrupted, "Dawn, you know we've got an appointment with the probate lawyer at ten. That's the only place you're going today, and you're not going to be running around through alleys getting shot at with dart guns tonight, either. Now, I have to get dressed, so I'd appreciate it if..." He stood up and made vague shooing gestures in the direction of the front door.

Willow shrunk in on herself slightly. It never failed to amaze Spike that someone who could blast hellgods with lighting bolts without blinking an eye still retreated so readily into mousiness when confronted by an ordinary human being. "We'll just be going," she said, flipping the laptop closed.

"Horned toads," Spike whispered. He couldn't be certain, be he thought that a wistful look flicked into Willow's eyes for a moment.

"Remember I told Spike he could stay here," Dawn said. "If we're going to be out all day anyway you won't be bothered if he sleeps on the couch."

Her expression was hopeful, but as her father's hesitation to consent lengthened, it began to slip towards the mutinous. The vampire gave Hank a charming and completely untrustworthy smile. "You'll never know I was here." He glanced around the room. "Nothing worth nicking."

Hank retreated into stone-faced irritation. No fun at all, this one. "Dawn, I'd like to talk to you in private for a moment. Willow, glad to see you again, and pleased to meet your, um, friend."

Willow looked as if she were about to correct him, but Hank turned away with a distracted air and herded Dawn off towards the back of the apartment. Willow watched them go with a little shake of her head, then stuck the laptop back in its case, leaned over to Spike and whispered, "You sure you're gonna be OK here?"

Tara nodded. "We c-could put you up if he kicks up a fuss."

Spike regarded Hank's plaid terrycloth back with a curl of his lip. "If I can't handle 'im I deserve to be staked. Though you might leave the blanket on the landing in case of emergencies." He hesitated. "Thanks."

She smiled at him again, that eminently biteable Willow-grin, and took Tara's hand as they went out the door, opening it carefully so the sunlight didn't hit the couch and closing it behind them. Spike settled back thoughtfully on the couch, arms crossed behind his head. The witches' concern was balm to some deeply-buried part of him which had gone shivering and untended for years before his death. Willow was just like that, he knew, impulsively warm in liking, impulsively fiery in anger, and Tara would follow her lead. Still... knowing that the two of them cared whether he lived or died was a bit of all right.

His eyelids began to droop. He was still a little hungry, but that was a sign that he was healing quickly. His hand had settled down to a bearable throb, and with any luck he'd sleep through the maddeningly itchy phase where the bones realigned themselves. Sleep wasn't in the cards yet, unfortunately. The voices from Hank's bedroom probably would have been audible without too much straining even without the advantages of vampiric hearing; the apartment walls were thin and Dawn wasn't trying to keep it down. He eavesdropped, of course; his current set of eccentric hand-tailored ethics didn't extend to denying his curiosity about what other people were doing behind his back.

"...dangerous," Hank was saying.

_Too right, mate_.

"Not to us!" Dawn shot back. "He wouldn't do anything--not without a really good reason anyway, and I told you that with the chip in his head he can't hurt you. "

_Not quite, Little Bit. Depends on how much I feel like taking for the privilege of dishing it ou_t.

"Dawn, you just can't go around letting vagrants stay in our house."

"This isn't our house. And he's not a vagrant! He has a... place over by the cemetery."

"Then he should be staying there."

"Maybe I should be too! It'd be better than staying in this shitty apartment and way better than moving to L.A.!"

"Young lady, I'm not going to stand for that tone of voice--"

Spike rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow, a citrine flicker in his eyes and a low growl building in the pit of his stomach. He half expected to hear the sound of a slap in there, but it didn't come. Whatever Hank Summers' faults, smacking his children around didn't appear to be one of them. Dawn's voice raised to a shout.

"I haven't seen you for over a YEAR, Dad! Forget that he's saved my life three or four times, Spike's been here! When Mom died, he was here. When Buffy died, he was here. Whenever I needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on or... whatever, he was here! Even when he was busy or--or had other things on his mind--"

_You give me too much credit, Niblet. That's the nicest way anyone's ever phrased 'drunk off his arse'._

"--he never walked out on me and I'm not going to walk out on him!"

"'Whatever?'" Hank wasn't quite shouting, but he sounded extremely upset. "Dawn, you haven't been... going out with this Spike, have you?"

"Going out? Dad, _ew_! Tacky much?" Dawn's voice dripped disdain. "I'm so over him. He's my _friend_. Even if I was interested, he was totally in love with Buffy and it would be majorly crass of me to take advantage of him when he's all heartbroken." A pause; then the anger left her, replaced by something stiff and brittle. "It's almost nine. Shouldn't we be going?"

Spike, torn between amusement and a tiny bit of lingering Victorian shock at the idea of Dawn taking advantage of him, lowered himself back to the couch as she came storming out of her father's room, her mouth a thin hard line and her eyes flashing lightning. She looked very little like her sister, but there were times when the resemblance was so close that it hurt. "Oi, Niblet."

She turned, hand on the doorknob of her own room. "What?" Now that she was no longer facing down her foe, her voice shook and tears threatened to spill over. She was getting so tall... she could almost look him in the eye now. Wouldn't be able to call her 'little bit' with a straight face much longer. Not like her sister. The top of Buffy's head had hit him just about in the chin, even with those incredible heels she was always wearing, and he wasn't particularly tall himself. Buffy... Stupid name. God, he missed her.

"Not like yours truly has a steady job pinning me to Sunnydale, pet. Been awhile since I gave the L.A. night life a look. In fact, the chance to make Grand-sire's unlife miserable again might be worth the relocation all by itself." He cocked his head and gave her the grin. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Dawn said nothing for a moment, her mouth working, and then she dashed over to the couch and dropped to her knees, giving him a quick, hard hug, all mortal warmth and impulse. He hugged her back, a little clumsily; he wasn't really used to this yet. "Can I get you anything before I go?" she whispered.

"As long as you're offering, I'm still a bit peckish..." She jumped to her feet and in a moment he heard her rummaging around in the kitchen, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door.

"You want this heated up?"

"Yeh, sure." That Dawn had been keeping a plastic milk carton of blood on hand for him, without knowing exactly when or whether he'd turn up here, touched him no end.

"Here you go," Dawn said, handing him a mug full of warm blood. "This is it, I'm gonna have to pick up more while we're out, if I can get Dad to stop at the butcher's. The remote's over on the TV if you want to watch anything. And no smoking." She scrutinized him for a moment, then added, "You look a lot better. When was the last time you ate?"

Spike looked down at his half-empty mug and realized that he'd gotten outside of a gallon of blood in the last three hours. Not to mention the donuts. "Er..." Today was Saturday, he'd first gotten wind of the Ghora on Thursday night... "Two days ago?"

Dawn planted one fist on her hip disapprovingly. "Geez, no wonder you looked half-dead." He raised an ironic eyebrow. "You know what I mean. You've got to take better care of yourself."

"All right, cross my heart, Niblet." He thought longingly of the man whose arm he'd split open with the axe. Life had been so much easier... and tastier...when people were nothing but Happy Meals on legs. Pig's blood was revolting no matter how you drank it, but it kept him alive. So to speak. Thank God he'd retained his taste for normal food; most vampires didn't, and even if it didn't nourish it kept him from pining away of culinary boredom. He remembered Darla and Dru's bemused looks the time he'd dragged them to his favorite fish and chips place. They'd gone and eaten the fish-and-chips man instead, which had irked him, especially as they hadn't saved him any. Best damned chips in London, just the right amount of grease and no stinting on the salt...

On the other hand, it had been brought forcibly home to him in the last two years that with very few exceptions, vampires were so utterly sodding boring that he had difficulty seeing how he'd managed to put up with them as long as he had. Once you were off killing people, and if your opposite number wasn't interested in a shag, there simply wasn't anything to do with another vampire, whereas humans frittered away their time with all sorts of fascinating rubbish. He sighed and took a philosophical swallow of second-best. It was much better warmed up. Maybe he could nick a microwave somewhere for the crypt.

He looked up at Dawn with a roguish glint in his eyes. "Be a love and see if your Dad will stop at Willy's and get me a pint or two of the real thing?"

She laughed. "As if! He'd roll over and die if he knew Willy's existed." She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of her father's door opening. "Bye, Spike. I'll see you later."

When they'd both left he pulled the duster over his shoulders again and settled down to get some more sleep. He did feel better. Better than he'd felt in quite awhile, actually. _Buffy_. He closed his eyes and imagined her sitting on the end of the couch, there by his feet, small and golden and tougher than nails.

He'd dreamed about her for years, almost from the first time he'd seen her--first of killing her, later of shagging her senseless and then killing her, still later of them shagging each other senseless and... well... not killing each other. He'd never been very clear about what would happen after the not killing each other part, because he was perfectly aware that it was pathetic and ludicrous that he'd fallen in love with the Slayer, and doubly ludicrous that he should be making fumbling attempts to impress her with his virtuous behavior. Vampires weren't made for virtuous behavior, that mopey pseudo-Byronic poof Angel notwithstanding.

Nowadays he dreamed about talking to her. Just talking, for hours and hours, telling her all the things she'd never given him a chance to say, or which he hadn't found the right words for while she lived. The way they'd been starting to talk, ever so tentatively, in those last few days before her death... before he'd failed her. Telling her about his life. Telling her about his death--the real story this time, not the farrago of half-truths and braggadocio he'd cobbled together the first time she'd asked. Telling her about an existence which had spanned almost thirty living years and a hundred and twenty unliving ones in little scraps and pieces, and discovering to his chagrin how very little in either life or undeath he could find to be proud of.

_Hello, love_.

She didn't answer. She never said anything in his dreams. He had no idea what she could say to him that she hadn't already said. Buffy had never been one for talk. She acted, and if her words had been few and far between in those last few days, her actions had spoken volumes that he had yet to decipher. So in his dream she only watched him with those grave, beautiful hazel eyes that seemed to take up half her face, and listened.

_Funny thing happened today, and I hope you can forgive me for it. You've forgiven me worse, I promise_.

It wasn't that he'd ever stopped wanting her. He still wanted her: her scent, her every turn of expression, the color of her eyes, the cant of her nose, every curve of her deceptively slender, gloriously strong body, all were burned indelibly into his brain. But the wanting which had begun there had grown to encompass much more than just her body, and perhaps more than just her. She was beautiful, but no more beautiful than any one of a hundred other girls. It was the flame that burned within her that drew him, moth to her candle, the flame that had almost guttered out there at the end before exploding in one last all-consuming bonfire. He could have warmed himself in the fire of her soul for eternity.

_You know I've been hunting for trouble since you died, love. I kept hoping I'd find some big enough to take me down for good. No such luck, eh? You wouldn't think it from all the times you and Angel kicked my arse, but when I'm not fighting the Slayer I'm pretty damned good, and I've still got too much pride to give Death less than my best fight even when I'm looking for it._

_ Will asked if I'd be all right today. And you know what, love? I will be. I dunno what happened, but for the first time in my life I've stopped wanting to die. I still miss you. The place in my heart where you were is still a hole a thousand miles deep and I don't know if anything'll ever fill it up again, but Little Bit needs me, God knows why, and Will asked me if I'd be all right. And it felt... good._

_ Your Dad's wanting to take Little Bit with him to L.A. I'll probably tag along, once we suss out those wankers in the van. I promised you I'd take care of her, and I will. I let you down once, love, but never again. If she wants to take up the world-saving business, I can't think of a better memorial for her big sister. I'll give her a hand, if she'll have me. That should put the poof's knickers in a twist. I'm looking forward to that._

_ G'night, Buffy._

  
*****  


Xander Harris pulled up outside the apartment building where Hank Summers and Dawn were staying at around five-thirty in the afternoon. The sun was heading for the horizon as he got out of the car and squinted up at the second-floor apartment. One of the windows looked odd, and a moment later he spotted a mangled-looking window screen lying in the privet hedge nearby. Bits of stucco still clung to the frame. "The guy couldn't knock?" Xander muttered, shoving his car keys in his pocket and starting up the stairs two at a time.

He'd only been here once before, when he and Anya had helped Dawn carry her suitcases over from Giles' apartment two weeks ago. Mr. Summers had been polite but curt, and Xander, foreseeing possible disasters when Anya's terrifying frankness next chose to surface, hadn't pressed to hang around. When he got to the landing he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. From the sound of it, the television was on inside, so he grabbed the insufficient little regulation issue apartment door knocker and rapped it as sharply as he could.

After a moment the door opened a crack. Xander waved. "Hey, Mr. Summers, can li'l Spikey come out to play?"

Mr. Summers, he decided, wasn't as appreciative of Xander humor as Mrs. Summers had been. Dawn's father shot the bolt back with a grunt that might have been "Come in," and opened the door all the way with an expression of grudging relief. "He's just leaving."

As Xander had halfway expected from past personal experience, what the vampire was actually doing was making himself completely at home in the place where he was least wanted. Dawn was sitting on the couch watching the Cartoon Network with a plate full of Spaghetti-Os (Mr. Summers was also apparently not as good a cook as Mrs. Summers). Spike was emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a borrowed sweatsuit which was rather too large for him, rubbing his wet hair vigorously with a towel. "Is there some sort of cosmic law which decrees I can only be trapped for the day in places where no-one has a decent wardrobe?" he asked bitterly of the room at large. He let the towel fall to his shoulders and Xander choked on a snicker.

"Hello, Fluffy. Ready to roll?"

Spike glowered and made a futile attempt to get his hair to lie flat sans gel. "We're stopping by my crypt first. I'm not going anywhere looking like this."

"I'm with you, bro. God forbid we head out to fight the forces of evil without Vidal Sassoon." Xander paused, attention momentarily snared by the television. "Ooh, Dexter's Lab. Is this a Justice Friends episode?"

Dawn shook her head. "It's the one where Dee Dee breaks Dexter's invention."

"Oh. Darn." He snapped his fingers. "Never seen that one. Hey, Dead Boy, sun's down, get a move on."

Spike tossed the towel over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, retrieved his duster and shrugged into it. He and Dawn shared an enigmatic look. "I'll be in touch, Niblet," he said.

"You'd better. You have to bring Dad's clothes back."

"What's with Dawn and the looks of angst?" Xander asked as they clattered down the stairs outside.

"Daddikins is takin' 'er back to bright lights, big city with 'im."

"Eerg." Xander made a face. "Well, that's somewhat sucky, but not the end of the world."

"Is when you're fifteen." Spike hopped over the railing and dropped the rest of the way to the ground in one jump, apparently just because he could. Xander heaved an exaggerated sigh and continued to descend the hard way while the vampire stood impatiently on the oil-spotted asphalt of the parking lot, waiting for him to catch up. "As I'd think you'd remember, bein' a hell of a lot closer to fifteen than I am."

"Just goes to show which of us is more mature." Xander unlocked the Corvair and swung inside. He threw the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot and turned the car's nose in the direction of cemetery which housed Spike's crypt. Spike turned up the radio, switched it over to the local indie/punk station and slouched in the passenger seat, tapping his good hand on one knee and singing along with Radiohead in a surprisingly tuneful baritone. "What, no snappy comeback? You're in a good mood all of a sudden."

"Clean living agrees with me."

"I'd take your temperature if I thought it would do any good." He switched lanes and turned down the quiet tree-lined street which ran by the cemetery's front gates. "Willow wants us to pick up some burgers or something on the way to the shop. Strategizing food."

Spike snorted. "Brilliant. Be seen in your company once or twice and I'm consigned to donut patrol." He produced a wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a couple of bills at random, tossing them in Xander's direction. "Here, I'm buying."

Xander did a double-take and stuck a finger in one ear. "Excuse me? I thought I just heard you say... Hey! That's my wallet! Gimme!"

"You have a sad fixation on petty details, Harris."

Xander snatched his wallet back and stuffed it into his pocket. "I think I preferred you depressed."

Despite his sarcasm, it was something of a relief to see Spike starting to bounce back to his old ball-of-nervous-energy self, though Xander had been expecting it for awhile now. Spike wasn't a brooder by nature, unlike certain other vampires Xander could have named. In the past his method of dealing with personal disasters had been to go on an extended bender and then rebound with a fierce determination to fix the problem, whatever it was. Of course, in the aftermath of said bender, Spike didn't always hit on something intelligent as a solution. Kidnaping Xander and Willow after Drusilla had dumped him had not exactly been the height of non-dumb planning, and having Warren build that robot... less said about that the better. With any luck, this time around the insane plan stage of Spike-recovery had been circumvented by the necessity of looking after Dawn and the fact that in this case, there just wasn't anything that _could_ be done...

Xander swallowed hard. The massive unfairness of a Buffy-less world still blindsided him occasionally.

After a brief stop at Spike's crypt (from which he re-emerged with pale hair slicked ruthlessly into order, and clad in black jeans and T-shirt distinguishable from the first set only by the lack of demon-induced gouges) they were sitting at the window of the In-And-Out Burger drive-through while the vampire turned the charm on the waitress ("Does it look like I care about E. bloody coli, luv? I want it rare, and by rare I mean I want it to scream in agony when I bite into it") when Xander saw the van. It was a nondescript dark blue Chevy with a crumpled front bumper, and it wasn't until it pulled to a stop at the corner light that the sight of it sparked a faint memory of Willow saying that the mystery van had been blue. He reached over and whacked Spike on the shoulder. "Psst! Does that look familiar?"

Spike looked in the direction of Xander's pointing finger, and his eyes flickered gold for a second. "Bloody hell, yes! Move over, Harris, you drive like my grandmother."

Xander's brain conjured up a wild image of a nineteenth-century little old lady from Pasadena whipping a horse and buggy madly through the streets of Sunnydale. "Oh, no you don't!" He clung tenaciously to the steering wheel with one hand and grabbed the bag of burgers from the drive-through window with the other. "Run your own car over the median and play chicken with a semi all you want, you're not getting your chilly paws on mine."

"I never! Not sober, anyway! Step on it, then, the light's changing!"

Flinging change at the confused waitress, Xander threw the car into gear and roared out of the drive through with all the massive power that six cylinders could muster. Saturday night traffic was heavy, but the Corvair was smaller and more maneuverable than the van, and Xander swerved from lane to lane, trying to catch up to their elusive quarry. The fact that Spike was now sitting in the open window of the passenger side door, hanging onto the side view mirror with one hand and leaning half-way into the next lane of traffic to keep the van in sight didn't help much.

"Get back inside, you idiot! They'll see you!"

"All the better! Stop clucking and drive!"

A large pickup truck zoomed by within six inches of the vampire's platinum head, horn blaring. Spike flipped the driver off and yelled an anatomically impossible suggestion. Xander hunched over the steering wheel and reflected upon the mildly terrifying fact that Spike's control over his temper really had improved considerably over the last two years. At the next light he reached over and grabbed the vampire by his shirt-tail, dragging him back into the car. Spike was yellow-eyed and grinning like a maniac. "I definitely prefer you depressed."

Luckily none of their antics were anything particularly out of the way for a Saturday night in Southern California, and the drivers of the van didn't appear to pay any more attention to the honks and shouts behind them than to any other road-rage altercations that happened to cross their path. Ahead of them the van made a sudden swerve into the left lane and Xander gritted his teeth and cut off a beer truck to follow it. He scraped through the left turn as the light went from yellow to red and barely made it through the intersection ahead of the voracious horde of oncoming cars. "Yeeeeeeaow!" Spike whooped, halfway out the window again. "Turn off your headlights!"

"Like hell!"

Traffic had thinned out, and Xander hung back, trying to keep at least two cars between them and their prey and stay inconspicuous, which wasn't easy with Spike determined to play Road Warrior. "Wait a minute, this is familiar," he muttered after a mile or so. "This is the way to the abandoned warehouse, isn't it? We're just coming in from the other side."

Spike craned further out the window and then dropped back inside. "Cor, Harris, think you're right. There's the turn-off." He looked indignant. "Some nerve they've got, usin' my old lair."

The van, indeed, turned off on the disused road leading to the warehouse. Xander drove on by and kept going for several hundred yards before pulling over and turning off his lights. "So... we know where's they're holed up. Do we go get the big gun?"

"I'd like to 'ave a bit more to say to the big gun than 'Ooo, they're at the old warehouse'," Spike groused. "Every bloody black hat in Sunnydale ends up there sooner or later." He opened the car door and stood up, gazing over the dark, overgrown fields. Xander got out rather more slowly, feeling a little peculiar. There was enough light to see the broken hulks of rusting, abandoned cars scattered here and there among the long grass, not enough to see the treacherous shards of glass and torn metal lurking to trip up the unwary. The last time he'd covered this ground, almost three years ago now, he'd been Spike's captive.

The vampire, who'd started off across the uneven ground with the total unconcern of one who could see in complete darkness, turned round with a questioning look. "You coming, Harris?"

Xander shook himself. "Yeah. Just... happy memories."

Spike actually looked... not guilty exactly, but somewhat sheepish. "Ah." He ducked his head and ran a hand through his hair, noticed it was the left one, flexed it a couple of times and began undoing the bandage with perhaps more attention than the task deserved. "Right then. Nasty bit of ground 'ere. Watch where I step and maybe you won't end up down a well."

Which wasn't exactly an apology, Xander thought as they picked their way cautiously towards the warehouse, but it might pass for one in a dim light.

The warehouse loomed against the night sky, even more dilapidated and skeletal than Xander remembered it. "Weird to think that in another year or two the subdivisions are gonna swallow this place up," Xander whispered. Spike shrugged.

"'appens. Last time I went home there was a McDonalds where the house I was born in used to be. Couldn't even be a sodding British chain."

Xander spent the next few moments trying to wrap his head around the bizarre concept that Spike had been born instead of popping into existence full-fledged, duster, bleached hair and all. He hadn't made much progress when the vampire's cool hand touched his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. "They're in there all right," Spike said softly, dropping into a feral crouch. His nostrils flared. "Four of 'em."

"The van guys?"

"Vampires." He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded, inhaling deeply the better to catch the scents on the breeze. Satisfied with the information, he casually left off breathing again. "And two blokes."

The walls of the warehouse rose sheer and grey overhead, broken panes of glass opening into the deeper darkness within. A rickety metal staircase led upward to a winch platform. Xander tugged at it dubiously, and a shower of rust flakes shivered to the ground. Without comment, Spike took hold of the railing and started up the stairs. Xander didn't argue; the vampire was smaller and lighter than he was, not to mention much stronger and much less vulnerable to physical damage; if the thing was going to collapse with someone on it, better Spike than him. Spike skinned up the staircase with inhuman speed and leaped lightly over to the winch platform. He turned and crouched down. "Feels solid. Come on." Xander followed as quickly as he could, wondering why it was that he always ended up tagging along after someone who moved like a big jungle cat... or in Spike's case, something that hunted big jungle cats.

The door behind the winch platform was locked, or maybe just crusted shut, but Spike broke it free without much effort, and the two of them slipped through. They were standing on the catwalk with ran around the perimeter of the interior. Down below the floor of the warehouse was illumined by a forest of candles which rivaled the bank Spike kept in his crypt.

In the dim yellowy light Xander could make out four heaps of rags on the floor--no, one of the heaps had just moved. The vampire sat up groggily, its demonic visage turning blindly from side to side as if searching for something... or someone. It stared up at the catwalk. Xander stood stock still. Could the thing sense his heartbeat even at this distance? After a moment it slumped back to the grimy cement again. Now that he was looking he could see the other three twitching now and again. "Drugged?"

"Must be. Not enough time to starve 'em that stupid." Spike's voice held a tinge of disgust.

The two men who'd been in the van came into sight, carrying... buckets of paint? Man and vampire watched in mutual confusion as one of the men produced a push broom and began sweeping the area of the floor around the drugged vampires. His right forearm was heavily bandaged; he must have been the one Spike had hit with the axe earlier. In the process it became obvious that the vamps were chained as well as drugged; the rattle of metal links on concrete was clearly audible when the push broom man moved one of them aside.

The second man was prying open the bucket of paint, and (after stirring it properly, the professional part of Xander's mind noted) dipped a brush into it. In front of the first vampire, he began marking out the outlines of an elaborate symbol on the floor.

"Don't get too fancy," the man with the broom said, his voice echoing hollowly through the expanse of the warehouse. "They'll do the details when it's time for the blood."

The paint man grunted and moved on to the next vampire in line. One by one, a sketchy symbol in red paint was inscribed on the floor in front of each of the vampires, and at the last, a fifth symbol.

The first man leaned on his broom surveyed their work critically. "We still need one more."

"We'd have our quota already if that blond asshole hadn't broken Number Four's neck," the second man said.

Xander looked at Spike. "Sure they don't know you personally?"

"Well, hell, why not take him, if we can find him?" Broom Man said. "According to the amulet he fit the criteria."

Paint Man grunted again; it seemed to be a favored mode of expression. "He exceeded the criteria. We'll find another one, and exactly which one isn't important. You can't spit without hitting a vamp in this town, and we're running on a... deadline."


	3. Chapter 3

"You could have brought the food back first and spied later," Anya complained, examining her slightly congealed cheeseburger. "Now it's all cold and icky. I don't like cold food. And Xander could have been hurt."

Spike, lounging against the end of the counter (Anya wouldn't let him anywhere near the cash register) shrugged. "He's had 'is shots."

"It's OK, Anya, we can warm them up," Tara said, anxious to avoid a squabble. She took the cheeseburger and whispered a few words over it, handing it back in slightly more edible condition.

The table in the back room of the Magic Box was covered with a litter of ancient, musty books, scribbled notes, and hamburger wrappers. Willow sat in the middle of the mess, dwarfed by teetering stacks of books piled up in on either side. She was leafing through one book and then another with an increasingly puzzled expression. "Five vampires," she said. "I know I've heard of that somewhere before. Completely totally positive sure, but there's lots of nothing in any of these books that matches it." She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and opened yet another yellowing tome. "I wish Giles would get back."

Tara put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Willow reached up to catch it in her own and leaned into Tara's side. She flipped another page. She didn't want to think about just how likely it was that Giles would decide to stay in England for good.

"What about Wesley?" Anya asked suddenly. "He's sort of Giles Lite."

"That's an--OH!" Willow clapped a hand to her mouth. "Wesley! That's where I've heard about a five-vampire ritual!" She bounced up and began rooting through the piles of books. "He told me about it when I was in L.A. last spring!"

"So it's, what?" Xander asked. "I'm guessing not something to do with pretty flowers and fluffy puppies?"

"It's a Raising." Willow dug out a short fat book bound in shabby brown leather from the middle of one of the stacks. The stack wobbled dangerously and Anya and Tara grabbed it, narrowly averting a literary avalanche. Willow sat down obliviously and started leafing through it in excitement. "Here it is! The ritual itself isn't described in detail, but it's a ceremony for..." She trailed off, and when she spoke again her voice was small and unhappy. "Raising a particular soul from death and re-embodying them," she finished. "You have to sacrifice five living humans and use their blood to paint the symbols and mark out the circle, and then you have to sacrifice five vampires, and then poof, you get your dead person back. It's what Wolfram &amp; Hart used to bring Darla back to life. It says that 'cause it requires such a big sacrifice it's usually used to resurrect really powerful or important people."

"Which hell?" Anya inquired. "There are a lot of them."

Willow ran a finger down the page. "It doesn't say. It's all really vague. The only copy of the ritual itself is on the Scroll of Aberjian, and Wesley's got that all locked up in L.A. because it's got a whole bunch of prophecies about Angel on it and a spell for neutralizing the Mark of Vocah. It's seriously multi-tasked."

Spike arched an eyebrow. "So if that's the only copy of the ritual, and Wes and Soul Boy are keeping this ever so important bit of parchment under wraps, might I make so bold as to ask what these blokes think they can do without it?"

"That's the only _official_ copy," Willow said, squirming slightly. "Maybe they have another. Like if they happened to see a copy of the scroll once and just happened to memorize parts of it and write it down later, purely for research purposes. Because you wouldn't ever actually use it, it being completely of the bad and all. Unless of course you're of the bad too, which I guess they must be." She looked around with a feeble smile. "Hey! Did you guys see what the last number on the license plate was? We could narrow down the address."

As attempts to change the subject went it worked fairly well. Fifteen minutes and second cruise through the California Department Of Motor Vehicles database later, everyone was gathered round the laptop, staring over Willow's shoulder at the address on the screen. "That's it," Xander said. "Hacienda Drive."

Willow drew a deep, nervous breath. "OK. Strategizing now. Whatever they're Raising is likely to be bad. So we need to find out when they're doing it, so we can stop it. And just in case we can't stop it, we need to find out who... or what... they're trying to bring back." She chewed on her thumbnail for a moment, then glanced up. "Xander, you and Anya head back to the warehouse. If the van people are gone, stake those vamps. That'll delay them while they get more. If they aren't gone, just go home and get some sleep."

She slammed the book shut and stood up. "Tara... you and Spike come with me. We've got some spying to do."

  
*****  


The DeSoto slewed round the corner onto Hacienda Drive, headlights reflecting crazily in the blank glass eyes of the houses. Darkness parted before it and closed in again behind it as the car cruised slowly down the street. Hacienda Drive was in an older neighborhood which had been made into an inadvertent backwater when a branch of the freeway had cut through it forty years ago, and they hadn't seen any other through traffic since turning off Fourth. The houses were mid-sized ranch-style dwellings, built some time in the fifties--a few of the roofs still showed the distinctive outline of a swamp cooler against the city-glow of the night sky. The yards were comparatively huge, and the houses were set well apart from one another. The single street lamp set at the intersection with Cavenaugh shed a dim circle of yellow light upon the first few houses on the block, but did little to illumine the rest of the street.

"I don't see any street numbers," Tara whispered, leaning over the back of the front seat.

"They're painted on the curb," Willow whispered back, "but they're pretty faded. I can't see anything through these windows anyway." She reached up and scrubbed at the cloudy windshield with the heel of one hand. It didn't produce much result. "What do you put on these things, Spike, SPF 300 sunblock?"

"Axle grease," the vampire replied. "And mind you don't rub it all off when I've got it just the way I like it." Willow jerked her hand back and examined the black smudge on it with dismay as he pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. Spike picked up the printout of the address from the seat between them and squinted at it at arm's length. "Got to be one of these along here, dunnit? Next block down skips to the forties. Twenty-seven... um..."

Willow snatched the paper from his hand. "Twenty-seven thirty-eight." She looked at him a little suspiciously.

Spike returned the look with perfect who-me? indifference, feeling slightly silly. He didn't have his reading glasses with him, as he'd learned the hard way in his first year of undeath that glasses and riverfront brawls were not particularly compatible. He'd been pretending he didn't need them for so long it probably wouldn't have occurred to him to put them on in front of the witches in any case. He circumvented further discussion by getting out and opening Tara's door; Willow, alarmed, was out of the car before he could get round to hers. It always amused him that the two of them could take vampires in stride but a little old-fashioned courtesy thoroughly wigged them out.

Willow, having saved herself from the potential horrors of chivalry, retrieved a small blue nylon duffle from beneath the seat and slung it over one shoulder. "I am so Harriet the Spy," she whispered, bouncing on her toes a little. "I wish I had a notebook." Both Spike and Tara looked at her blankly, and she heaved a resigned sigh. "No one ever gets my literary references."

After checking several of the faded and half-overgrown numbers painted on the curbs, the three of them set off across the dark lawn towards the houses. Most of them were overshadowed by huge old trees, mulberry and elm and eucalyptus, or dark ragged hedges of untrimmed oleander, twenty feet tall and starred with red and white flowers. The scent of the eucalyptus and oleander mingled headily in the humid night air. They kept to the shadows of the trees as much as possible. Half-way to the house a sudden whirring noise made them all freeze, but it was only the automatic sprinkler system of the house next door.

There was no car in the driveway, though some fresh oil spots indicated that one had been there fairly recently. They came to a halt within a stone's throw of the house, on the far side of the curving drive. The oleander hedge was now reinforced by a six-foot cinder block wall, and the branches drooped down over it, forming a sort of half-tunnel leading along the length of the wall.

"Near enough?"

Willow glanced nervously at the uninformative windows of the house and nodded, chewing on her lower lip. "I just hope this is the right..."

"You're sure about this...?" Tara asked, worry evident in her eyes. "Freeing your astral body is..."

"The best way to disarm any wards they've got," Willow replied. She didn't look any less worried herself, but her voice was as resolute as it always was in the face of a new magical challenge. Spike nodded.

"You're doing fine, Will."

She looked up at him gratefully. "I... thanks. The Fearless Leader thing... it's not me." She made a helpless gesture with her free hand. "Buffy was so good at it."

"She was that," Spike agreed, "But here we are, awaiting your every word, so you can't be doing too badly, eh?"

Willow grinned. "Oooh, I have minions." She set the nylon bag down and dropped to her knees beside it, brushing the hair from her face. Unzipping the bag revealed a wooden bowl and a plastic squeeze bottle of water; Willow removed both and set them carefully down on the ground, along with a small linen bag. She brushed a clear spot in front of her in the litter of oleander leaves and shed eucalyptus bark, and positioned the bowl in the center. Sitting back on her heels, she unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and poured it into the bowl until the liquid touched the rim, then sprinkled a few pinches of powdered herbs from the pouch onto the surface of the water. The mixture stank of wintergreen and garlic, a peculiar combination which didn't go at all well with the eucalyptus. Spike stepped back a pace or two and stifled a sneeze.

"Here, you didn't tell me this spell required large amounts of vampire repellant!" Garlic wasn't physically dangerous as a cross or holy water would have been, but the smell of the flowers still made him gag.

"Don't be such a big baby." Willow composed herself in front of the bowl, laying her hands palm up on her knees. She took a deep breath, and looked up at them apologetically. "This will probably take awhile."

"Guardians of the night, I call upon you,  
Ye who are of the night and in it  
Ye whose eyes are the thousand thousand stars  
Ye whose ears are the thousand thousand winds

Ye whose tongues are the thousand thousand streams,  
All-seeing, lend me your eyes  
All-hearing, lend me your ears  
All-telling, speak to me!  
Make of me one spirit with ye  
Ye who are of the night and in it  
Make of my eyes two stars..."

Spike watched from a garlic-free distance as Willow's voice grew softer and softer and at last faded to silence. Tara stood for a moment, watching Willow critically, then gave a small nod. "She's left her body," she said, her normally quiet voice even quieter. "We should probably leave her alone. Disturbing her concentration right now could be bad."

"Well, let's not have any bad, then." The two of them retreated a little further back along the wall, keeping the motionless Willow well in sight. Tara wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back against the wall, long honey-colored locks hiding her face, her eyes never leaving the still form of her lover. Spike made a quick line-of-sight check to be certain that the flame wouldn't be visible from the house, dug his lighter out of his coat pocket and flicked a cigarette to life. There were only two or three left in the pack; he should have picked up another one back at the crypt. He leaned against the cool gritty dampness of the cinder blocks and drew smoke into his lungs gratefully.

"She never believes me when I tell her that," Tara said. Her voice was barely audible.

_Now what's all this?_ "Tell 'er what?"

"That she's doing fine."

Spike looked sidelong at her and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Got to believe it yourself first, pet."

Tara stared unhappily at the ground. "I do."

The vampire rolled his eyes. "Come on, Kitten, you're worried sick about 'er. She can't help but notice."

Tara hunched up upon herself even further. What those two need, Spike thought, is a good knock-down drag-out or three. Clear the air. Buffy had certainly never had any problems letting him know when he'd pissed her off... But Will and Tara danced around each other on pins and needles, so terrified of hurting each other that things festered...

"You wouldn't understand," Tara said, and then, at his expression, added hastily, "I'm not trying to be snotty. _She_ doesn't understand, and the two of you... you're a lot alike. In some ways." She looked miserable. "Willow never knows when to stop, and someday she's going to get hurt."

Spike snorted. "And?"

"I t-told you you w-wouldn't..."

He made a derisive gesture, the glowing tip of his cigarette a red-gold arabesque in the darkness. "So Will takes a few chances. She gets results, doesn't she? God, I'd rather risk a little and get something done than sit around wanking off in the library over whether it's hic or haec or hoc in the fifteenth stanza. Just cast the bloody spell already!"

Tara flinched, and Spike immediately regretted his tone. Willow, Xander, Giles, Buffy... especially Buffy... were all more than capable of giving as good as they got when confronted with the sharp edge of his tongue, but Tara never struck out at him or anyone else, verbally or otherwise. It didn't feel sporting, snapping at someone who couldn't bite back.

Not necessarily someone weak, though. She met his gaze levelly. "You end up risking m-more than a little that way."

He grinned. "I repeat--and?"

Tara shook her head. "You two really are a pair." After a moment she said softly, "You like her, don't you?"

Spike blinked. "Much as I like anyone."

"No, I mean... you really like her."

Spike started to toss his cigarette, remembered that he only had two left, and took another thoughtful drag. "Fancy Will? Yeh, a little. I offered to turn her once, y'know, and I don't do that for just anybody." More than that, he'd been perfectly willing to accede to her plea to kill her cleanly instead, which at the time he'd felt was damned considerate of him. Probably Tara didn't need to hear that bit. He didn't enjoy thinking about it much himself. As with a lot of things in his past, he couldn't exactly say he was sorry for having made that abortive attack on Willow, but... the memory gave him no satisfaction anymore, and not simply because it had ended in the pain and humiliation of the first activation of the chip. The idea of doing anything similar now was... there _was_ no idea of doing anything similar now.

"But you never... like with Buffy..."

"Cor, pet, Will was the Slayer's best friend. Who better to fancy if you can't admit to yourself who you really want? Besides, after Jo-Jo the Wolf-Faced Boy ran out on her, Will was looking for someone safe and dependable. And yours truly will never be safe and dependable." He finally gave the cigarette up as a lost cause, dropped it and ground it out under the toe of one boot.

The expression on Tara's face drew an involuntary frown from him, recalling that miserable few months in the wheelchair after the organ incident, Drusilla's dark wicked eyes alight with lust and madness and laughter as Angelus' hands slid over her white, white shoulders... He realized that his fist was clenched so tightly that his nails were cutting into his palm, and forcibly relaxed. It was astounding how much he could still hate Angel, even after his love for Dru had... not gone; William the Bloody Sap had never fallen out of love in his unlife, but Dru had become part of his past rather than his future. "Look, you're not... even if Will was interested at this late date, I don't poach. Not," he added with a cheerful leer, "that I'd turn down a nibble on either of you if it were offered."

Tara flushed; he could sense the rush of blood to her face, but the near-invisible smile made a reappearance. "Sorry. Not offering. No, I'm n-not worried about that. I know Willow loves me. I just wish I could... understand her better sometimes. She's gone so far, so very, very far... and I know I'll never catch up." There was a lost look in her eyes for a moment, but she shook her head, banishing it. "You're not what I expected. You or Anya. I used to think... when I thought I was a demon... that maybe if it turned out like you two maybe it wouldn't be unbearable, and Willow would..." She laughed a little. "Willow likes the extraordinary. And then you hit me in the nose and proved I was ordinary."

Spike, lighter poised over his next cigarette, shrugged. "Will loves you, Kitten. Can't be all that ordinary."

Willow's still form slumped abruptly, and Tara dashed over to her side immediately, cradling the smaller woman in her arms. Spike stuffed the lighter back into his coat pocket and followed her. Willow's elfin face was pale in the darkness. "Whoa," she whispered hoarsely. "They had wards all right. "I've got them turned off, but we should hurry. Spike?"

He tossed her an ironic salute. "Leave it to me, Red."

While Willow began putting her spell components back into her duffle, the vampire pulled a small, battered black toolbox out of the inside pocket of his duster, opened it, and selected a small pair of wire cutters. Humming to himself, he crossed the drive in a few noiseless strides and inspected the side of the house thoroughly. As expected, his dark-piercing eyes picked up the wires to the home security system running along up under the eaves. He followed them back along the side of the house to the place where they spliced into the main electrical line. He took a leap up and caught the edge of the roof with one hand, snipped the wire through, and dropped back to the ground and tucked the clippers back into the case. He sauntered back over to the side door and glanced in through the windowpanes. He couldn't quite get a sense of whether or not there was anyone inside. "Do we care if they know we were here?"

Willow, still looking somewhat washed out, got to her feet and straightened her blouse. "Deeply."

Spike pursed his lips. "That'll take longer." He selected a couple of oddly-shaped pieces of metal for the black case, and dropped to one knee to examine the lock. After studying it for a moment he put one of the picks back, took out another one, and went to work. It wasn't much of a lock, just the sort of thing you could buy and install yourself at the local Home Depot.

"I'm going to try really hard not to think about how much of an expert you are at breaking and entering," Willow murmured.

The vampire smirked. "All part of basic training for the forces of evil."

Once the door clicked open, Tara and Willow slipped past him into the dark interior of the house. Tara conjured a small light and the two started off down the hall. Spike stood in the doorway, pressed up futilely against the intangible barrier that prevented him from entering and straining his ears for the sound of other human beings, or anything else. Willow looked back, surprised, then chagrined. Spike sighed and waved her off. "Search away. I'll just stand here all uninvited-like."

"Oops." Willow grimaced. "I forgot. But maybe it's easier for you to keep lookout from there anyway."

The two of them disappeared down the hall and Spike sat down on the doorstep. This was the only thing he really loathed about being a vampire. Angel whinged on endlessly about not being able to see the sun, but for Spike having to avoid sunlight was usually only a nuisance. The sun was an enemy, something he could outwit, if not out-fight. Not being able to walk where he pleased was just a pain in the arse, a snide reminder from the Powers That Be that he wasn't quite human, even if his (Could he say friends, at this point? Perhaps he could) didn't always remember that.

_Buffy had forgotten, that last night.._.

His eyes were tearing. _Bloody garlic_.

  
*****  


They'd come in through a side door which opened onto a hallway. It ran off on either side, leading to several bedrooms in the rear of the house and off towards the living room and kitchen towards the front. There were a few anonymous photographs hanging on the wall, all of people with strangely disturbing eyes. The living room was made up as a home office with a desk, a chair, and several filing cabinets, while a couch which had seen better days and a televison huddled on the other side of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls. "Wow." Willow stared around in growing excitement; the mystical energy in the room was exhilarating. The volumes crackled and throbbed with power. Her fingers itched to get hold of the shabby leather bindings. Tara could sense it too, though her expression was anything but enthusiastic.

"This feels... I don't like it," Tara said. She looked around. "We should check the desk and the files."

Willow tore herself away from the shelves and headed for the computer on the desk. Tara, after a somewhat jittery reconnaissance of the room, began rummaging through the filing cabinets. Willow pulled out the last item in her duffle, and slid it into the CD slot. Hopefully this machine was set up to boot from a CD, and wasn't programmed with some noisy WAV file on startup. As it turned out, she was in luck. Hacking into the computer's password files was stupidly easy, easy enough to make her a little suspicious, but she found nothing unusual once in. There were hundreds of files in the Documents folder, far more than she could hope to check in the time they had. However, this was a nice new computer. Did it have a CD burner? It did. She slipped a blank CD into the second CD bay, pulled up the burner software, and set it to copying the entire directory. While it ground along, Willow pulled up the e-mail program and checked through the incoming and outgoing boxes for recent communications. There was nothing, until she thought to check in the trash folder--and no, it hadn't been emptied recently.

  
Date: 21 Oct 2001 142456 PDT  
Subject: Progress  
To: lmartin356@socal.net  
From: burningman@toccata.fugue.com

Martin: Note the subject line. Not impressed by your lack of it. Special circumstances in this case make it imperative that the subjects be collected in the vicinity of the target's death. I realize that this is a difficult task in light of our deadline, but you were fully informed of this upon accepting the assignment. I will be arriving on the morning of the 31st with the other operants and the living subjects, and I expect everything to be in place. Please arrange for a hotel room and the necessary accommodations for the target.

Vespasian  
cc:Mr. Bryce

  
Date: 25 Oct 2001 195613 PDT  
Subject: Re:Progress  
To:burningman@toccata.fugue.com  
From:lmartin356@socal.net  
Mr. Vespasian, I'm pleased to report that we've located a nest of suitable subjects, several of whom fall into the parameters you gave us, no younger than thirty and no older than seventy-five years...

Well, phoo, Willow thought. This tells me nothing we didn't already know. She skipped down a few messages.

  
Date: 27 Oct 2001 072546 PDT  
Subject: Re:Progress  
To: lmartin356@socal.net  
From: burningman@toccata.fugue.com  
Martin: The description you gave matches that of William the Bloody, A.K.A. Spike. Our information on him is extremely sketchy. Various sources give his age as anywhere from a hundred and twenty to two hundred years, and while he is unquestionably of the lineage of Aurelius, it is unclear as to whether his sire is Angelus or Drusilla. He is of no immediate use to us in this operation as he is well outside the necessary parameters. Mr. Bryce informs me that he may, however, prove useful in the later stages, as he has been associated with the target in the past. Kindly make preparations to take him after the Raising. As for the Raising itself--no excuses. You will have the correct number of undead subjects prepped and in position on the night of the 31st, or you and your associates will become part of the procedure.

V.

Willow blanched. How could she have forgotten? The scroll had been very specific, after all. A Raising demanded human sacrifices as well as vampire ones. Someone, somewhere, was gathering up those sacrifices, and that was the first thing they had to stop--never mind whatever it was they were trying to Raise.

"Willow," Tara whispered. "Look at this."

She was holding up a manila folder with a snapshot paperclipped to the front. Willow hurriedly checked the burn process, closed down the software and removed her CD. Hopefully there'd be something in the wilderness of borrowed files with more details on who and what. She leaned over the desk in the eerie glow of the monitor to get a better look at the photo. Tara brought her little ball of witchlight down to help out.

The photograph was of a blonde girl, or perhaps a young woman, in a blue tank top. She was staring at something off-camera with an intent look, lips parted, one hand raised with index finger extended as if she were about to make a point in an argument. Willow stared at the picture in shock. "Buffy?" she got out at last.

Tara silently opened the folder while the other two hovered over her shoulders. Within were several other photos, some recent, others less so. Each one was fastened to a short printed biography, apparently from the Council of Watchers' official records, plus a page or so of notes and observations. "That's Kendra!" Willow gasped. Tara had never met Kendra. "And that's Faith, and..." She shuffled through the snapshots. "They're all Slayers. I don't recognize this one, she must have been the one who died just before Buffy was called, and hey, this one's really old..."

The dates on the records went back at least thirty years. Buffy's file was by far the thickest in the folder. Not surprising, as she'd been the Slayer for five years, almost double the usual run. None of the others seemed to have made it past three, and there were several whose entries amounted to little more than their date of Calling and date of death. "Why would they have..."

Her puzzled inquiry was cut short by a sharp rap on the window. Willow jumped half out of her skin, her heart racing, but it was only Spike, nose pressed to the windowpane. "Step it up, children," he said, voice muffled by the glass. "Mummy and Daddy are home."

"Oh, shoot." She looked around wildly for a moment, making sure she'd collected up all her CDs. "Come on, Tara."

Tara stuffed the files back into the folder and tucked it under her arm, heading for the hall. A moment later they caught the distant rumble of an engine. It grew louder as they hurried down the hallway, and the whine of the tires altered pitch as it slowed. With a crunch of gravel it turned into the driveway and the side of the house was bathed in the glare of headlights. The engine coughed in protest for a moment and then fell silent.

The witches heard the slam of car doors as they reached the side door. Willow clutched the doorknob in momentary indecision. Run for it, or try to hide in the house and gather more information? And what about Spike? He couldn't fight humans; was he going to do the sensible thing and stay out of this? _And is that the stupidest question I've asked myself tonight?_ The indecision lasted a moment too long; footsteps were coming up the porch steps. The knob twisted in her grasp. "Hey," a male voice said, "This door's unlocked."

  
*****  


Spike faded back into the shadows beneath the trees as the familiar blue van with the crumpled grill drove up and rattled to a halt. The engine shut off with an asthmatic wheeze, and the two men he and Xander had observed at the warehouse got out, followed by a third whom he recognized as the one who'd been driving the van the previous night.

The logical thing to do would be to stay out of sight. Willow was more than capable of handling three men who'd shown no sign of being anything other than ordinary humans, whereas he couldn't so much as give Xander a well-deserved smack on the head without setting off the chip. He was getting damnably tired of that chip. He watched with increasing distemper as the men left the van and headed towards the house. Two of them, the driver and Paint Guy, went round to the front door while Broom Guy headed for the nearer side door. He heard the rattle of keys, the driver's muttered complaint about his aching back...

"Hey," Broom Guy called out sharply. "This door's unlocked."

"Did you forget...?" the driver asked.

"Hell, no."

The other two had abandoned the front door and were coming back around the corner of the house as Broom Guy pulled a pistol from one pocket and jerked the door open. Spike caught a brief glimpse of the witches' faces beyond his shoulder. Tara looked scared. Willow looked nervous. Which didn't mean anything; Tara always looked scared and Willow often looked nervous just before she turned someone into a newt. There was absolutely no need for him to risk his neck...

_Bugger logic_.

All three of them were focused on the doorway and none of them saw him step out of the shadows and cross the drive. "And just who the hell are--" Broom Guy was demanding. Spike reached around him, yanked the pistol neatly out of his hand before he could finish the sentence, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Beg pardon," he said as the startled man rounded on him, gaping, "but you're surrounded." He held up the pistol and examined it with all due scorn. It was a cheap .38 Smith &amp; Wesson which hadn't been cleaned in too long. He broke open the cylinder and began removing the cartridges, shaking his head sadly the while. "This is really pathetic, mate. This thing wouldn't even slow me down."

The other two stopped in their tracks. It struck the vampire that if they'd never heard of him, they probably didn't know about the chip, and that the last time they'd met, he'd done a convincing, if spurious, imitation of someone capable of inflicting all kinds of damage without batting an eyelash.

Paint Guy made a flinchy sort of move, as if he were about to do something but couldn't decide exactly what. Spike dropped both gun and ammunition into a coat pocket and fixed him with an evil smile. "I wouldn't try that if I were you, my jumped-up alchemical janitor." He laid a comradely hand on Broom Guy's arm and tightened his grip a fraction, just enough to convey _I could crush you like an eggshell_ without quite intending to do so. He felt a nausea-inducing twinge in his head, but the chip remained otherwise quiescent. "Might make me testy." He nodded at Willow. "Worse, might make _her_ testy."

The driver broke for the van, heading for escape or the tranquilizer gun. "Sleep!" Willow shouted, fingers stabbing the air. The driver collapsed bonelessly to the pavement. The other two, their eyes riveted on their partner, didn't see her wince and stagger as the hasty spell's backlash hit. For a moment all her weight sagged into Tara, who held her up with white-faced calm. In the interval it took the men to turn and face her once more, Willow had collected herself. "You're making this very difficult," she said. She pointed to the prostrate driver. "Spike, pick him up and bring him inside." Willow turned back into the house with an imperious look at the other two. "And you--invite the nice vampire in."

Broom Guy and Paint Guy exchanged mulish looks, obviously unwilling to comply, until Willow wheeled round, green eyes darkening ominously and little blue and white sparks crackling in her auburn hair. "I said, invite him in."

"Come in," Broom Guy said hoarsely.

Spike strolled over to the driveway, bent down and hoisted the limp body of the driver over one shoulder without apparent effort. He tipped an imaginary hat to Broom Guy, and stepped inside with only a minor glare at the doorframe.

They herded the Van Guys into the living room. Spike dumped Driver Guy on the sofa and Willow directed the other two to sit on either side of him. Broom Guy was large and dark and belligerent, Paint Guy was thin and fair and intense, and the driver was an inoffensive sandy-haired median between the two. He looked vaguely familiar. On the sofa, a tired relic of those few years in the mid-seventies when everything was either mustard yellow, burnt orange, or avocado (this particular specimen being all three at once) they made a particularly repellant sort of see, hear, and speak no evil tableau.

Spike drifted over to the desk and hitched himself up on the corner. Willow took a stand on the threadbare carpet in front of the sofa and regarded their captives. "All right,", she said, crossing her arms and looking severe, "Someone's up to something _very_ naughty, and you're going to tell us all about it."

"Shit," Broom Guy muttered, "We don't need this, Vespasian didn't pay us to--"

"Shut up," Paint Guy said, utterly flat.

Willow looked over at Tara. "Do you remember that truth spell? Will it work with tonight's stars?"

Tara nodded. "I think so." She looked around for a moment before pulling a paper clip off one of the files in the manila folder. She set the folder back down on the desk and held the paperclip up in both hands, speaking the incantation in a clear soft voice which held none of her usual hesitancy. "As the reed, so the rede; as one is unbent be the other be also. I make straight the path." She jerked one bend out of the paperclip. "I make true the tongue." She jerked another bend out. "No falsehood may pass the lips of those within these walls." She placed the mostly-straightened bit of wire across the threshold of the hallway. Willow turned back to the Van Guys.

"Who's Mr. Bryce?"

Paint Guy's mouth worked for a moment.

Willow frowned. "I can't force you talk, Mr. Evil Person, but I can tell you that as of tonight don't have any 'subjects' left, and that won't make Vespasian happy. You don't have anything to lose by joining the forces of niceness, and we may be able to keep you from becoming blood sacrifices." She paused significantly. "If you feel like holding anything back, I can also point out that the nice vampire hasn't had dinner yet."

Paint Guy glanced at Spike, who gave him a little wave. Sweat broke out on his brow. "Magnus Bryce," he rasped out at last. "CEO of Bryce Communications."

"Magnus Bryce the software guy?" Willow asked in surprise.

"What, you think Gates is the only one in the business with a line to the netherworld?" Broom Guy asked. He glared at Spike, his wide mouth twisted in what would have been an aggrieved pout on a less Neanderthal countenance. "Jesus Christ, it's bad enough having a goody-two-shoes vamp in L.A., now there's one in every town in--"

"You _wouldn't_ be comparing me to Angel, now, would you?" Spike snarled. "Not bright."

"Hush, Spike. Bryce? That's the last time I use _his_ programs!" Willow said with an indignant huff. "Who's Vespasian?"

"Our contact in L.A. Works for Bryce," Paint Guy replied sullenly. "I don't know his real name."

Will wasn't too bad at the interrogation biz, Spike thought, though personally he would have preferred a little more preliminary smacking around. But that wasn't the witches' style, and unfortunately he couldn't volunteer his services in that line without blowing his cover. He was only an effective threat as long as they didn't realize he couldn't hurt them without incurring killer migraines.

He picked up the folder Tara had set down and began leafing idly through it. Slayers' biographies? He'd known of some of them, fought a few of them, and killed two of them... _Three, if being a bloody incompetent at saving one counts_. The photo Tara'd taken the clip off slipped out of the mass of papers. The woman in the photograph was African-American, grinning at him with cocky confidence from almost twenty-five years in the past. Nikki. The vampire stared at her for a long moment, eyes glittering. Nikki had been a master of the dance. Not in Buffy's league--no one was in Buffy's league--but she'd had style, that one. _You didn't beg for death. Took it when I offered, but didn't beg. Shouldn't have told Buffy that you did. Sorry, Nik_.

Spike shuffled through the rest of the files, but they only went back thirty years or so; the other face wasn't there. He'd never known her name. He slammed the folder shut, angry--whether at himself or someone else he wasn't sure. _'Sorry, Nik'? God, I am turning into fucking Angel. Pathetic sod._ Restless, he flipped the folder open again. Kendra's file. Someone had written 'Unacceptable risk of complications' in blue ball-point at the bottom. Most of the other files, he saw, had similar notations, cryptic little phrases about akashic degeneration or low metatonic interphase resolution in the same anal-retentively neat handwriting.

Buffy's said 'Excellent prospect.'

He stared at the notation for a long moment during which he felt exactly as cold as he was. Spike leaned over and nudged Willow in the arm with the folder. She took it and began to flip through it absently.

"...all I know is, the blood sacrifices will be brought here when the Raising commences," Broom Guy was saying. "They're scheduled to start at midnight on Wednesday. I guess they thought that doing it on All Hallows' Eve would ensure that they wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. You wouldn't catch a real spook out dead on Halloween." He looked uneasily in Spike's direction. "No offense."

"So we need to be here to stop it," Tara said. Willow nodded, but her attention was on the contents of the folder, her eyes growing wider and wider. She'd read into it what he had, then. She pinched her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice had that dangerous level chill in it.

"What are they Raising?"

The Van Guys shrugged in unison. "Some supernatural bodyguard for Bryce, is all we know. He fucked up a sacrifice last year and he's got a Davric demon pissed off at him for breach of contract. Not to mention his feuds with every other magical corporation on the west coast."

Willow snapped the folder shut under Paint Guy's nose. "If you're so completely not knowing, I gotta wonder what this is doing here."

Spike leaned forward intently and ran his tongue over his teeth. "Look, we really don't know!" Broom Guy said, edging away on the couch. He ran into Driver Guy's still-comatose form and stopped. "All the files and stuff are Vespasian's, and sure, I can guess he might be trying to Raise one of these Slayer chicks, but I don't know, and I don't want to know! I was hired to catch some vampires, all right?"

Spike got up and glided over to the couch, sat down on the armrest next to Broom Guy and eyed his neck. "You've caught one, then." He ran a finger down Broom Guy's cheek, savoring the throb of the man's pulse, letting the yellow light blossom in his eyes. The fear-stench in the air intensified. Time was, that would have been as enticing as the scent of blood ... He brought his head down, until his lips were a breath away from the salt-tang of the man's skin and the sound of the blood rushing through the carotid artery was a sweet lascivious torment. "So, Will, do I get din-din or not?"

In light of their shared suspicion, Willow looked as if she were giving the matter serious consideration. "I think he's telling the truth," she said at last. She looked each of their captives in the eye and said very composedly, "I think you'd both better pack up your friend and leave town. We'll take care of Mr. Bryce."

"You'd better hope so," Broom Guy snarled. "You are fucking screwed if you mess with him, girl. You and your pet vamp may be hot shit against the three of us, but Bryce is one of the top five wizards on the West Coast and he's got another five of the top twenty on his payroll."

Spike's voice deepened to a growl. "But all the king's 'orses don't happen to be here at the moment, do they?"

"Let's go before they get here," Willow said, tucking the folder under her arm.

The DeSoto roared up the on-ramp, ignoring the one-car-per-green light at the end, and bullied its way into the next lane. For once Spike's driving failed to raise his passengers' blood pressure. Willow stared blankly at the folder full of Slayer bios down on her lap and rubbed her eyes. Tara leaned over the seat, rubbing her shoulders and looking at her in concern. "You need to get some sleep, sweetie."

"I guess." Willow picked up the photo of Nikki and looked over at Spike. "You knew her?"

The vampire's ice-blue eyes flicked from the road ahead to the twenty-five year old photo. "Yeh. She was my second Slayer kill." There was none of the old pride in his tone, just a flat statement of fact. Willow looked away, and for half a mile or so no one said anything as the highway lights strobed by outside.

"We all saw the notes," Tara said. When neither Willow nor Spike replied, she gulped and went on. "And w-we know we've g-got to..."

"Shut the fuck up," Spike interrupted savagely. "We don't know. Not yet. Not for sure."

"Spike..." She put a tentative hand on his shoulder; all his muscles were tensed to the consistency of steel cable. "I'm sorry."

The platinum head dropped abruptly, forehead banging the top of the steering wheel, and the car swerved wildly for a heartbeat. Before either of the others had a chance to panic, the vampire was looking up again, his cheeks wet in the chancy light. "Sorry's good for sod-all!" he yelled. The DeSoto was weaving dangerously from lane to lane and only the lateness of the hour had prevented them from sideswiping someone already.

"Spike!" Willow shouted, grabbing the dashboard with both white-knuckled hands. "Stop it! We're all going to end up dead--deader--if you don't--"

Spike slammed on the brakes. The DeSoto fishtailed to a screeching halt on the shoulder and he collapsed over the wheel, his whole body shaking. He flung open the driver's side door so viciously that it was a wonder the handle didn't come off, leaped out and shook a fist at the sky. "It's not fair. You hear that, you fucking bastards, if you're up there which I fucking doubt? IT'S NOT FAIR!" He sat down abruptly on the pavement, drawing deep gasping breaths as if his life depended on getting the air. Willow and Tara got out of the car and huddled together a few feet away, uncertain. The vampire looked up at them, eyes wild and pleading. "It's not fair," he repeated. "You're supposed to go on, aren't you? That's what she said she wanted. Live for me. And I'd just got to where I can do that, and the fucking Powers That Be want to dangle her in front of my nose and take her away again? I can't do this. I can't. I'll fucking hunt the bastards down and kill every last one of them--"

Willow, her own eyes brimming, dropped to her knees and laid a small hand on his right shoulder. After another moment Tara dropped down on his left. If any of the passing cars thought it peculiar to see a bleached-blond vampire sobbing his heart out on the shoulders of a pair of witches on the verge of the highway none of them stopped to comment.


	4. Chapter 4

Noon. He was in bed, but he hadn't slept. Tossed and turned for hours, paced up and down the stairs in the crypt, alternated between stretching himself out on the chill marble sarcophagus in the upper room and the perfectly ordinary bed in the lower chamber, tried to watch telly and smoked till his throat was raw, which took some doing for a creature immune to the ravages of nicotine. He could feel the sun out there, making its patient circuit of the sky. He'd never been patient. Oh, as a living man he'd been meek, all right, hemmed in by social obligations and family pressures and all the things that just weren't done, old chap, but never patient. Spike sat up with a snarl, kicked off the sheets, and padded upstairs again.

In theory it didn't matter whether he had sheets on the bed or not; it wasn't as if he were any warmer or cooler with or without them. He just liked sheets, the way he just liked junk food and loud danceable music and penny dreadfuls and a good football game with a good riot afterwards and all the other things which ought to have been completely irrelevant to vampires. (Or, back in his human days, guilty pleasures to gentlemen of leisure; becoming a demon had given him license to indulge all the decidedly plebeian tastes he'd never dared admit to while alive.) Spike had never wasted much time pondering the philosophical implications of his infatuation with things human; it had pleased him, annoyed Angelus and Darla, and completely bewildered other vampires, and that was justification enough.

He lit himself another cigarette and flung himself down in the battered armchair. After a moment of staring at the blank screen of the television, he leaned over and grabbed his glasses off the crate which served as an end table and flipped up the top. He groped around inside and pulled out a book at random. _Plain Tales From The Hills. Right, Rudyard, take my mind off my troubles_.

Nowadays, it was the things he'd enjoyed openly as a human which were the secret guilty pleasures. No one would have taken a Big Bad who read anything more complex than the Racing Forum seriously--least of all himself. _So, Buffy-love, did you ever read for pleasure? Will said you lot had done Oedipus for a talent show once, so I know you've been exposed to the concept. Bet not, though. You always had an aversion to using the brains you were born with, and that godawful sludge Angel used to mope over wouldn't have helped matters. Nausea indeed. Sartre always made me ill. And Proust--did you know Soul Boy adored Proust, or was he wise enough to keep that his own dirty little secret? Incredible, isn't it? Remembrance of Things Wrist-Slashingly Dull. Never could stomach it myself. Give me something with guts to it. The Greeks did it up proper. Blood and love, or blood and rhetoric--the blood is compulsory..._

He shut the book and closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the sagging back of the chair. T_alking of blood, you know what's funny, Buffy? I was this close to a bloke's throat last night. Oh, I wanted to drink from him all right, if that's what you're wondering. But I didn't want to kill him. Well, all right, maybe a little, I'm not completely pussified and he was an annoying bastard. Frankly it would've been smarter of us to leave them all a little dead. I'd've been more than happy to rip him open in a fight. Just sittin' there, though, seemed... unsporting. Is it the chip that's done this to me? Or was I always weak inside, somehow, all along? 'Cos when I look back, love, it's a little scary how easily I gave up on the killing. Could have had Harmony bringing me snackies all along, but I never asked her. Could have beaten the shit out of any two-bit vamp in this town once I found out I could, and made them kill for me, but I never did. And that's long before I started trying to make nice for you, love. What's that say about Big Bad Spike?_  
_ And now all I have to do to get you back is let five people who aren't us die. Wouldn't even have to kill them myself. It would be so easy. If I didn't know what was coming, if someone came up and told me about it next week, would I care, as long as you were walking around in the sun again? Probably not. Too bad, so sad, I've got Buffy! Sorry, love. I'm still a fairly nasty piece of work._  
_ But I do know what's coming._  
_ Sod it all._

  
*****  


"...you're sure? All right. Thanks bunches, Wesley. Say hi to Cordelia."

Willow hung up the phone and straggled back over to the table in the rear of the Magic Box. It was still piled high with books, and now with sheaves of printouts of her own notes on the Raising ceremony--or some of them, anyway; there were certain of her private speculations that she didn't feel like sharing with the whole gang. Not now, and maybe not ever. Tara and Xander were going over the mass of paperwork for the umpteenth time while Anya sat over behind the counter making arcane notations in the shop's accounting program.

She sat down between Tara and Xander and rested her head against Tara's shoulder. Tara put an arm around her shoulders and after a moment she felt her lover's fingers stroking her forehead lightly. She'd gotten five or six hours of sleep after Spike had dropped them off at Tara's dorm in the wee hours of the morning, but she had a tension headache and wasn't feeling anywhere near her best. She wanted nothing more than to go back to their dorm room and spend the rest of the day letting Tara hold her and rub her head.

Of all of them, Tara had known Buffy the least amount of time, and while Buffy's death had been sad for her, it wasn't the blow to the gut it had been for her and Dawn and Xander and Giles... or Spike. Sometimes it was a comfort to have someone around who was a little apart from it all; she didn't have to feel that she should be supporting Tara in grief of her own. She could just give it all up and let Tara be the strong one...

But now wasn't one of those times. Time to put on the Fearless Leader hat again. Willow opened her eyes and sat up. "OK. According to Wesley, from what they can tell from what happened with Darla's Raising, this is the top of the line as resurrections spells go. When someone's brought back, they come back exactly as they were just before they died, with their real body, soul and everything. Darla was fine. Well, not fine, she was dying of syphilis, but that's not the spell's fault. If you're terminally ill or grotesquely old or something it's definitely of the bad, but Buffy wasn't either of those things--"

"It's always of the bad," Tara said firmly.

"Yes," Willow said, uncomfortable. "That way lies ickiness. But my point is, if they bring Buffy back she'll be physically all right. The thing is, a Raised person may not remember who or where they are. They're all confused. What Bryce is probably counting on is that he can use that confused time to cast some sort of a control spell, or maybe just use old-fashioned drugs or brainwashing or something."

"So potentially..." Xander said slowly, "He could have a Slayer with five years of experience at his beck and call. And anyone who'd kill five people to get her probably wouldn't employ her to play tiddlywinks."

Willow gave a defeated nod. "Yeah. That's about it. Wesley says they'll try and infiltrate Bryce's place tonight and see if they can find out where the live sacrifices are being kept. If they can spring them, it may mess up the whole plan. He used to go out with Bryce's daughter so he's been in there once or twice before. I've got the Van Guys' e-mail address set up to forward any mail from this Vespasian person to me, so he won't get suspicious about them not answering anything."

Xander looked dumbstruck. "Wait, did you say Wesley went out with someone?"

"Strange, but true." Willow sat up and brushed her hair back from her face. "We can't count on them being able to find them in time, though. We're not even sure that they're being kept in L.A."

"So say we do stop them this time." Xander slammed the book in front of him shut. "What's gonna keep this Bryce guy from rounding up another bunch of victims next month, or next year, and trying this again? He's rich, he's powerful, and he's human. We can't kill him. It'll be damned hard to get him arrested. I can't really see him groveling at our feet in abject apology for his uncivilized behavior. What can we do about this long term?"

"Probably nothing," Anya said. She tapped on the monitor in front of her with a pen. "That's why I want us to have lots and lots and lots of money. Money is a much better defense than weapons."

"Oh, yay." Xander subsided into a disgruntled perusal of the nearest batch of printouts. "That makes me feel much better."

Anya smiled at him fondly. "Me too."

"We won't have to worry about it again for awhile," Tara said softly. "Raisings only work at specific times, and the times are different for each entity Raised. By the time the stars are right again, it will probably be too late for..." She paused awkwardly. "To bring her back."

"And isn't that just a sunshiny piece of news?" Xander muttered. "And don't tell me about the cosmic balance, and that death is all part of the circle of life, and all that crap. It still sucks wet gravel through a curly straw."

Tara looked hurt, and Xander looked stubborn, and Anya looked worried. "Everyone go home," Willow said.

"What?"

"Everyone go home," she repeated, making a little shooing gesture. "We were all up way too late last night, and we're all tired and arguing about this is just going to make us all kooky. We'll go kooky much more efficiently if we all get some more sleep. So go do Sunday afternoon stuff. Tomorrow night we'll work out an ambush at the warehouse for Wednesday." She pulled up a smile for Tara. "I have one or two things I want to look up here, and then I'll stop by the crypt and bring Spike up to date and meet you later for dinner, OK?"

One of the few perks of being Fearless Leader was that people usually went away when you told them to, but it still took more time than Willow would have liked to clear the others out of the shop. Anya was the last to go, admonishing her to lock up before she left. Willow stood in the shop's front door and watched her walking briskly out to the car to join Xander. She glanced at her wristwatch. Four o'clock, and the Magic Box was finally deserted save for her. Alone at last.

Tara had left reluctantly. Tara was worried about her. Feeling more than a little guilty, Willow cleared a space on the table for her laptop, flipped it open, and pulled up the encrypted files where she kept the notes she hadn't felt like sharing with the gang.

It was more than notes. It was the bones of a whole new spell. She'd never had any intentions of using it, but the original Raising was the most powerful piece of magic she'd ever gotten her hands on. Studying it would teach her things she couldn't possibly learn elsewhere. Its endless repetitions had reminded her of a clunky old BASIC program, full of unnecessary loops and subroutines. Surely she could tighten up the code a little, eliminate a line here, add a more elegant phrasing there? It would be good practice.

It had proven far more difficult than she'd anticipated. The repetitions, the multiple sacrifices, were all in there for good reason. Tara was right about all magic having a price, but Willow preferred to think of spells as programs, or math problems. You put a word here and it had an effect. Maybe too much effect, so you added a material component there, or subtracted a gesture here. Multiply, divide, manipulate--if you worked fast enough, who knew what you might accomplish before the inexorable laws of magic demanded that the equation be made to balance again?

She sat there for a long time, head propped up on one hand, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil. After awhile she got up and climbed up the ladder leading to the balcony which housed the restricted section of the library. She knelt and ran a hand over the backs of the miscellaneous volumes on the lowest shelf. Her hand paused on a musty tome, and she slipped it off the shelf, turning it over and over in her hands. _You should just burn them all_, Tara'd said when Spike and Xander brought her the boxes full of old books from Doc's abandoned apartment. _Nothing good will ever come out of those... things. Can't you feel it?_

Willow ran a finger down the binding of the ancient, dog-eared volume before her. No, she couldn't feel it. Oh, she could tell that the book held power, of course, sense the tingle of potency when she caressed the spine or flipped through the pages. Many of the books Spike and Xander had retrieved felt like this in greater or lesser degree. So did a few of the books in Giles' library. So had the curious set of three grimoires Wesley had allowed her to examine during her trip to L.A. last spring. Power flowed through all of them, twisting, knotting, yearning to be free... maybe Tara was right and there was something inherently nasty about some of them. In many ways Tara was more sensitive than she, but Willow honestly couldn't see it. It was all magic, and it all called to her.

She climbed back down the ladder, holding the book awkwardly under one elbow, and went back to sit at the table. She opened the book and leafed through the first few pages, then opened it to the place where she'd left off the last time.

The lights flickered.

Willow looked up from the yellowed pages of the book and pinched the bridge of her nose. The headache had grown worse, an insistent buzz in the back of her skull like the drone of cicadas. The wavery lights weren't helping any. She squinted up at the light fixture overhead. They seemed fine now. She wondered if there were any aspirin left back in the training room. Probably not. The training room was fast reassuming its original character of a storeroom.

She gazed at the book. It didn't have 'Darkest Magic' plastered all over the cover in big scary letters, that was for sure. It just looked old, and battered, and grungy, black leather binding falling apart and the spine all cracked. It had no title at all.

The lights began to flicker again. The book was difficult enough to make out even without electrical problems, written in a crabbed hand in a debased variety of church Latin. Fifteenth century, probably, a bad translation of a tenth-century Arabic text. Someone had scribbled notes in the margins in a low German dialect and someone else had scribbled notes on the notes in sixteenth-century English. Within an hour she had three dictionaries spread out around her to look things up in, and she was still having trouble.

She'd been working on this since a few weeks after Buffy's death, and the sections she'd managed to translate so far were, she had to admit, a lot more disturbing than anything in good ol' 'Darkest Magic'. The spells in 'Darkest Magic' were destructive and flashy, but there wasn't really anything all that dark about them. It was just, she suspected, that no one would take a spellbook titled 'Pretty Decent Magic' seriously. The stuff in this one, though... nothing flashy here. The spells were as grungy and low-key as the book itself, but something about them... well, she couldn't say 'felt wrong', could she, not after telling herself that there was no difference between the feel of one grimoire and another?

Twitchy. They made her feel twitchy.

_He that desireth return from the land of Osiris hath many paths to walk, and this one be.._.

Shadowed? Unknown? What declension was that adjective, and which noun did it refer to, 'he' or 'path'? Willow flipped through the Latin dictionary, trying not to lose her place in the main text as she did so. Tenebrarius... darkness? Of the darkness?

_...and as Horus he returneth, yea he returneth clothed in flesh..._

Return clothed in flesh? Could this have some relevance? Osiris and Horus were Egyptian gods, and Osiris was killed by Set and...

Suddenly several previously obscure passages made sense. The lights were flickering again, violently, and the pain in her head was growing, but Willow paid neither any attention, focusing on the translation with all her being, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The cicada-buzz was louder now, waxing and waning in time to the dimming of the lights. The shadows crawled round the edge of the room--that was only the lights, only the lights and the ongoing California power shortages.

She pulled up the file of not-for-the-public notes on the Raising and began making alterations, adding a line here, deleting a reference there. Her fingers flew over the keyboard of the laptop, transcribing text and notes and notes on the notes. No... it wasn't transcribing any longer. She was _creating_. This, this was the heart of magic she'd been struggling towards for so long. Her breath came harder and faster as she typed. The buzzing grew to unbearable proportions, ringing through her head like a jackhammer, and the shadows in the corner of the shop writhed as the lights whined and failed overhead. Terror and elation filled her in equal proportions. Willow hit the last return and smacked 'Save'. Almost immediately the flickering stopped. Willow took a deep breath. She felt drained and lightheaded. She glanced up; the fluorescent were glowing steadily again, and the droning buzz in her ears was gone. Shaking slightly, she closed the shabby black book, and began straightening up the mess of papers, pens, and dictionaries. By the time she'd returned the books to their places on the shelves, and put everything else away, she was feeling more like herself again.

Before she closed the laptop, she checked to be certain the file was still in the folder, half expecting to find that there was nothing there. For a moment her fingers hovered over the trackball but her stomach went cold and tight and she decided against re-opening it. She wasn't sure she could face looking at what she'd just put together. Not yet. She tucked the laptop into its case, made sure she'd put everything away, and started towards the front door.

On the threshold she hesitated, then turned back and walked over to one of the glass cases. Inside were a selection of small glass and ceramic objects, statues and fetishes and idols of various types. Among them were two or three palm-sized spheres of smoky glass. Their surfaces were curiously crackled, as if they'd been through a fire. Willow opened the case and reached for them. Her hand hovered indecisively over the selection for a moment before settling on one of them.

She pulled it out and examined it, her heart pounding. The Orb of Thessula lay quiescent in her hand, empty, useless--a New Age paperweight, no more. She tucked it into her purse, conscientiously counted out the purchase price and left it on the register. She locked the front door of the shop behind her and started down the street. It was getting dark, and though the buzz in her ears was gone, the buzz of her thoughts wouldn't die down. She had to talk to someone... not Tara. She knew what Tara would say about this, and she didn't want to hear that, not right now.

She was frightened enough already.

The western sky was still glowing by the time she got to the cemetery, but the last burning edge of the sun had slipped below the horizon. She was going to be late for dinner, but that couldn't be helped; Spike hadn't (so far, anyway) figured out a way to steal telephone service. She knocked on the gate of the crypt, but there was no answer. After a moment she pushed the gate open and stuck her head inside. "Spike?"

The vampire was asleep in the armchair, barefoot and shirtless, a motionless, inhumanly beautiful ivory statue in the grey evening light. His chin had dropped to his bare chest and one pale hand was spread across the open pages of a book lying across his lap. A pair of old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses were perched precariously on the end of his nose, a hair's-breadth from falling off. Willow cleared her throat. "Spike, wake up!"

Spike started, blinked, and automatically shoved the glasses back into place, regarding her over the top of the lenses in a manner so reminiscent of Giles that Willow, keyed up as she was, almost burst out in hysterical giggles. It must be some sort of English thing. A second later he came completely awake and snatched the glasses off before realizing that it was a bit late for that. He settled for swinging them nonchalantly in one hand. "Will! Ah, hullo, I was just... reading."

"Well, shoot. That ruins my theory about your wretched Artful Dodger childhood and tragic struggle against illiteracy."

Spike looked embarrassed, though since he couldn't blush it was rather hard to tell for certain. "Keep it. Sounds a lot more exciting than swotting at Eton." He set book and glasses down on the crate beside the chair, got up, stretched very decoratively, and went over to the mini-fridge against the wall. He waved her to the chair, and she sat down gingerly. It felt weird, and after a moment she realized that it was because there was no warm spot where he'd been sitting. He pulled out a plastic baggie of blood, bit the corner off, and poured it into a glass. A horrid thought seemed to strike him. "For God's sake don't tell Harris, I'll never hear the end of it."

She smiled wanly. Spike seemed to sense that her heart wasn't in the banter, and went over to the nearest wall niche to light a few candles. As the little cluster of flames strengthened and filled the crypt with mellow golden light he used the tail end of the match to puff a cigarette to life. "So... news?"

He sounded strained. Willow felt a surge of guilt. She'd never been entirely certain how much of the whole Spike-loves-Buffy mess had been her fault. Two years ago, right after Spike had been caught and chipped by the Initiative scientists, she'd accidentally caught the two of them up in a love spell... sort of. Though both of them had appeared to snap out of it when the spell broke, Willow often wondered if it had had anything to do with subsequent developments. Spike had been suicidally depressed and at loose ends at the time, and then suddenly he'd been happy. If he'd associated that happiness with loving Buffy--who knew what weird little connections might have been made down in his subconscious? If vampires even had a subconscious...

On the other hand, he'd been obsessed with Buffy from the first time he'd blown into Sunnydale, and sometimes Willow suspected that something--not love, but something--had been brewing in Buffy's subconscious almost as long. Spike and Buffy had always talked big about killing each other, but instead they kept fighting and letting one another get away, breaking apart and coming back together like Silly Putty. So maybe she'd had nothing to do with it.

"We're going to meet up at the shop tomorrow night around nine, and work out how to stop the ceremony on Wednesday," she said. The vampire nodded. "Are you... do you want to come? I mean, I know this must be...hard..."

"Will," he said, looking almost his age, "If I wanted to stop you all it would take is a single phone call to Bryce. For all you know I've already done it."

She caught those ancient, pain-filled eyes with her own and held them. "If you had, you'd either be gloating or not telling me at all."

He grimaced as if the words stung him. "True. I'm a pathetic, whipped excuse for a monster, aren't I?" He chuckled bitterly. "So count me in for Wednesday."

Willow gripped the handle of the laptop case to keep from twisting her hands. "We all thought about it. Maybe for just a teeny weentsy moment, but we all did."

"Yeh, but..."

"And I," Willow continued almost inaudibly, "did something about it."

Outside in the graveyard a late cricket began chirping with moronic cheer. Spike's hand froze in mid-movement, then continued on its way to the ashtray. He ground his barely-started cigarette out very precisely in the center. "Did you, then?" His dark brows knit slightly. "What kind of something?"

He didn't sound shocked or accusing or worried. Just curious. She could have hugged him. Willow pulled the laptop case up onto her knees and flipped open the catch. "I've been working on this for a long time. Ever since Buffy died, almost. And yes, I know: evil naughty magic, bad Willow!"

"You're talking to the wrong bloke if you expect a lecture on morals," Spike interjected. Willow laughed nervously.

"It's funny, Xander was asking this afternoon what we could do in the long term to prevent Bryce from trying to Raise Buffy again. And the one sure way is to Raise her ourselves." She was talking too fast, words tumbling over themselves in an effort to get out. "I _know_ magic isn't free. I _know_ every spell has a price, and the stronger the spell is, the greater the price. Like there are all kinds of spells for raising people from the dead, but the trouble with most of them is that the price isn't high enough, so you just get gross decaying zombie type raisings of the dead--"

"Uh, yeah. Run into that once or twice."

"--and if you don't have anything to sacrifice, you pay the price yourself. Like when I cast those spells against Glory, and had nosebleeds and migraines for weeks afterwards." She checked the level of the battery and turned the laptop on. "I know all this stuff, and I know that to really bring back someone from the dead... that's a huge price. What's worth a life?" She met Spike's eyes steadily. "Tara thinks resurrection spells are bad because they upset the balance of nature, which is just... stupid. Heck, polio vaccines upset the balance of nature. The way I see it, the real problem is most wizards don't want to pay the price. So they make someone else pay."

She pulled up the file and opened it. Her hands were trembling on the keyboard. "I'm willing to pay. I just need you to help me do it." Now her voice was shaking, too.

"What kind of price are we talking about, Will?" the vampire asked softly. "There's damned little I wouldn't do to get her back. You know that. You have no idea how close I came to making that call. The only thing that stopped me was..." He trailed off, picking at his nails. "Two things, really. Didn't want to end up fighting you lot. But the main thing..."

"Buffy would have hated you?"

His eyes narrowed lazily. "I could live with that, pet. I could die with that. If bringing her back meant she'd hate my guts, stake me the moment she got her bearings, I'd do it in a heartbeat. If I had a heartbeat. But I couldn't live with her hating 'erself. And she would, knowin' the price of her life was... that." He shook out a fresh cigarette. "So whatever you've got in mind, Will, if it's something Buffy couldn't live with... let's make damned sure she never, but never, finds out about it."

Willow squeezed her eyes shut, shivering. She'd come here for just this sort of encouragement, hadn't she? Because Spike wasn't _good_, no matter how much he cared for Buffy and Dawn, or even, maybe, for the rest of them. She forced her eyes open. "I've... I've made a few changes. It doesn't need to kill five people anymore. Or even five vampires. It doesn't need to kill anyone at all."

Spike walked slowly over to stand beside the chair. He retrieved his glasses from the top of the crate, put them back on and leaned forward, staring at the screen over her shoulder. "There's a catch, isn't there? There's always a catch."

Willow didn't look up from the screen. "It's... there's a lot bigger chance of something going wrong."

"And that would be...?"

She waved one hand feebly. "Oh, our heads exploding... that kind of thing."

He made a dismissive noise. "Pfft. That."

"And it's still nasty magic, Spike. It still requires a sacrifice. Something worth a life."

It wasn't entirely accurate that vampires didn't breathe; they had to inhale to talk, or smoke cigarettes, or sigh melodramatically. She could feel Spike's cool breath tickling her ear whenever he spoke. Now he sighed. "And?"

"You won't like this."

"Try me."

"Dawn's blood is part of it."

"You're right, I don't like it."

"Not enough to kill her," Willow assured him. This was one part she was sure about. "Part of what makes this work is that Buffy died in Dawn's place to begin with. They're metaphysically equivalent. In a way, there's already been a blood sacrifice--"

Spike's eyebrows went up. "Isn't that cheating a bit, Will, bringing back the sacrifice?"

"It's within the letter of the law," Willow protested.

"No worries. I love a good cheat."

"Nothing actually forbids it." Even to herself, Willow sounded as if she were trying to convince herself it would work. "In so many words, anyway. But that's not all." She scrolled down the file and pointed to a section near the end. "How up are you on Latin?"

"Rusty," he admitted. "Not much call for it these days." His eyes flicked back and forth over the lines on the screen for a moment. "'Animam meam dono pro beneficio amicae carae.'--I hope I'm getting that bit wrong."

"Then you're probably getting it right. What's worth a life, besides another life?"

Spike straightened and rand a hand through his hair, looking down at her with a curious expression, as if he'd never seen her before. "Not a lot," he said slowly. "But as I remember, there's something you 'eld dearer that night I offered to turn you."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'threatened to turn me'," Willow grumbled. The brief flash of humor vanished quickly. She looked up, her mouth firming, and there was nothing joking in her face or her voice. "So. Is the offer still open?"

She didn't get the chance to see a vampire completely floored that often. Spike opened his mouth, closed it, and flung himself into a furious half-circle of pacing. Willow didn't give him a chance to say anything further. "I still have Jenny's re-souling spell on disk at home, and I've already got an Orb of Thessula. I've been afraid to mess with the spell till now because it was so powerful, but under the circumstances that's a little silly, isn't it? I figure we set up the first part of the spell ahead of time, you turn me, we call my soul back and catch it in the Orb, and..." her voice dissolved into a shaky squeak. "Voila, we have a sacrifice."

"We bloody well do not!" Spike burst out, coming to a halt. He grabbed one of her hands and pressed it to his forehead. "Am I feverish? I must be feverish, because I'm bloody agreeing with Tara! You're insane, Will! Don't get me wrong, pet, you'd make a smashing vampire, and I'm no end flattered you'd want me to sire you, but here's some Latin for you." He began ticking points off on his fingers. "Primus, there's no guarantee I can bite you without keeling over, and I'm buggered if I'll make a test run now. Secundus, if I did turn you, you'd be just a tiny bit DEAD for two or three days, and all bloodlusty and disoriented for another few days after that. By the time you were fit to finish the spell, Buffy would be alive and well and kicking ass for Bryce in L.A. And Tertius, once you were a vampire, there's no telling if your demon self would be as keen on getting Buffy back as I happen to be, as the first thing she'd undoubtedly do is stake the both of us. We're unreasonable that way." His eyes softened a trifle. "Will, you just don't understand how big a change it is, being turned. You can't."

Willow's face crumpled and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Oh." It was half a sob. "I do, Spike. I met my vampire self once. I didn't just need you to turn me for this. I wanted you to make me do the spell and then kill me after."

"Ah." Was that shock in his eyes, at last? "Well, bugger that. I think Buffy would bleedin' notice me killing her ex-best friend the soulless demon. And besides," he added gruffly, "I rather fancy you soul included."

_He's not going to help. He's not going to... I don't have to..._ She covered her eyes with one hand, shaking in reaction as the adrenaline deserted her and relief and disappointment flooded through her in equal portions. "Whatever happened to 'It would be wrong'?"

"Sorry, not my idiom."

Willow couldn't think of anything else to say. Spike returned to his frenetic pacing, as if standing still put him in danger of exploding. The silence grew between them as the last traces of sunset disappeared from the sky outside. Tara would be waiting at the dorm, worrying... she should get up, go back... continue doing the right thing. And she had classes tomorrow. She couldn't muster up the energy to get out of the chair. "So... I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Spike made a vague affirmative grunt, lost in thought. He came to rest by the doorway and stood there staring out into the night, his face hidden by shadow. Willow flipped the laptop shut and began the arduous task of dragging herself to her feet. She felt weak and jittery at the same time, but walking would probably take care of that. If she didn't throw up first.

"Half a mo', Will..."

Momentum interrupted, she sat down again. Spike had turned back to face her, obviously stricken with an idea. "This spell of yours... any law says it has to be your soul to make it work?"

Willow frowned, running over the restrictions and clauses of the spell in her mind. "Um... no... I don't think so. But mine's the only one I've got dibs on."

Spike was in front of the chair in two long strides. He dropped to one knee in front of her and grabbed her shoulders, eyes alight. "Use mine."

"You don't _have_..."

"Not _now_! Not in my hip pocket, pet!" He jumped to his feet again, alive with excitement. "But I did once, and it's out there somewhere, innit?" He waved a hand at the ceiling. "Angel's was. Stands to reason mine is too, dunnit? Not as if I'm using the bloody thing, so call it up and chuck it in wherever sacrifices get chucked!"

"Spike!" It was Willow's turn to be stunned. "I can't--that would be murder!"

"What, you think old William's poncing around in the clouds with a harp and a halo?"

"Well... maybe. I don't know!" Her voice was an anguished wail. "I'm not even sure what a soul is!"

The vampire was on his feet again, prowling round the room like a caged tiger; if he'd had a tail it would have been switching madly. "I know what it isn't. Fine, I'm not William. There's a big piece of him missing, and there's a demon in its place. But what's missing's not his mind, nor his heart--my mind, and my heart, damn it, beating or not. I've got those. They're part of me--they are me. Bloody hell, Will, I _know_ him. I know every day of his life. I know what he'd give up for... for love... as well as I know what I would. Dru didn't take me--him--by force. I may have been uninformed, but I was willing. If I can give up my soul for her I can damned well give it up for Buffy."

"But if you--him--William--Arrgh!" Willow grabbed fistfuls of her hair with both hands and yanked. "I'm all confused!" She worried at her lower lip, still sore from her having bitten it earlier, and in her mind's eye pulled up the image of the cursor blinking amidst the lines of the spell. "It... could work. The thing is..." She tried to catch his eyes again, but he was moving too quickly, caught up in an exhilaration every bit as frightening as her own had been. "You know, don't you, that getting your soul back is about the only way Buffy might ever..."

He wheeled impatiently about, cutting her off with a gesture. "I know. But it wouldn't do me any good having a soul if she's dead, would it?"

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have it back yourself?"

"Oh, right, and end up like Angel, pissing and moaning over my sins for the next century? I think not. Besides, pet, the only spell you've got to stick it back in me is that dodgy piece of gypsy work with the world's stupidest curse built in." He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at her. "And how long do you think that would last, hmmm? Let's face it, I'm a bloody sight easier to please in the true happiness department than Grand-sire ever was. I'd lose the sodding thing the next time Manchester United makes the Cup finals. Hardly worth it, is it?"

He came to a stop beside the chair again, bent down and purred into her ear, "Besides, pet, you know you're dying to use that spell. It's all coiled up inside you, waiting. When're you ever going to get another chance?"

Damn. He knew exactly how to get to her. But she'd known that all along. Wasn't that why she'd come? "We have to tell Dawn," she whispered, feeling the last of her resistance crumbling.

He laughed, a deep-down rumble that shook the chair. "'Course we do. Leave that to me, and run home to Kitten. If the Niblet says no, then it's all off. But honestly, Will, do you think there's a chance in hell she'll say no?"

"No," Willow admitted. "I don't."


	5. Chapter 5

Dawn lay sprawled across her bed, headphones blaring NSync, and stared down at the pages of her history textbook. It slowly penetrated that she'd just read the paragraph about the significance of the cotton gin for the third time. With a little exclamation of disgust she slammed the book shut and tossed it to the floor beside her bed. She lay back, adjusted her headphones, turned up her Discman and directed her stare up at the ceiling.

She'd had a long talk with Dad earlier about responsibility and growing up and all the usual crap. She was trying to be sensible, though throwing a temper tantrum would have been a lot more satisfying. For so long Mom and Buffy had been the mature, responsible ones, and she could afford to have temper tantrums. In the last few months it had all changed, and she'd been the responsible one, patching up Spike's broken bones and trying her hardest to splint up his broken heart at the same time. So why should she revert to spoiled little Dawnie the moment her father broke some bad news?

_Dad coming back shouldn't BE bad news_.

It wasn't as if Los Angeles were the other end of the universe. She'd spent two thirds of her life there, after all, and maybe it would be easier to start fresh at a new school where no one remembered her as the Freak Girl who'd tried slashing her wrists and had a public breakdown after her mother's death. She'd come back this year with an iron determination to ignore the whispers and the giggles, and it was working... sort of... but there was no denying it was hard.

If Spike really did come to Los Angeles, she'd know at least one person there. She hoped he would. When he wasn't trying to get himself killed, Spike was someone she could talk to about all the dark rotten stuff down in the bottom of her mind, the stuff that scared her, because no matter how awful it was, Spike had seen... Spike had _done_... worse. Nothing she could say could horrify him. Besides, he needed someone to keep an eye on him and make sure he _didn_'t get himself killed.

She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. The glowing blue LED read 9:06pm. She didn't feel like getting ready for bed, and she wasn't getting any good out of studying. Maybe she should call Willow before it got too late and see if they'd found out anything about the mystery van...

Her fingers found a loose seam on the bedspread, and she picked at it, pulling out little bits of thread. Mom had been going to sew it up, but she hadn't gotten around to it before she got sick. Running it through the complex's washing machine and dryer earlier to get the demon goo off had worsened the problem. Dawn rolled over and inspected the tear. The old thread had just rotted and broken, and the seam had parted. The material wasn't too frayed yet. Maybe she could fix it herself. A pang of distress hit her as she realized that she had no idea what had happened to her mother's sewing kit in the upheaval of moving out of the house.

Dimly, through the insistent beat in her ears, she caught the sound of something else, something...tapping. She sat up and looked around. Sure enough, there was a familiar face at the window. She hopped off the bed and went over to open it.

"Geez, Spike, we've got a front door!" she whispered. "Are you _trying_ to make Dad freak?"

The vampire swung himself up over the windowsill a good deal more gracefully than he had the last time he'd entered by this route, stood up and raked a hand through his hair. He shot a look in the direction of the living room and said low-voiced, "Sorry, love, but I don't feel like running the fatherly gauntlet just now. Got some news."

Her eyes lighting up, Dawn went back to the bed and sat down cross-legged. This was more like. "Did you find out who the guys in the van were?"

"In a manner of speaking." Spike started pacing, always a sign that he was feeling thwarted about something. The room wasn't large enough for him to do it properly, and after a couple of turns he came to a frustrated halt. He hesitated, head cocked, looking at her as if trying to gauge her reactions. "They're trying to bring your sister back from the dead. We've bollocksed them up for the moment by killing off the vampires they were going to sacrifice to do it, but it's not exactly a chore to find more vampires in the vicinity of the Hellmouth."

She felt as if her joints had frozen. "Bring her back?" she said at last, voice stiff with revulsion. "Like... we tried to do with Mom?"

She saw his shoulders twitch. None of the rest of the gang knew about Spike's involvement in her failed attempt to resurrect Joyce Summers, and Dawn intended to keep it that way. He'd only been trying to help, and his presence during the escapade was the only reason she wasn't currently Ghora chow. Over the last couple of months it had seemed that maybe a few of them were beginning to go beyond just tolerating Spike's presence for Buffy's sake. She didn't want to mess things up for him, because she was pretty sure that Spike... well, maybe he didn't _like_ all of them exactly, but he wanted or needed their company. If loving Buffy were all that kept him in Sunnydale, it would have been easy, after her sister had died, for him to slip off and disappear into the demon underworld without a trace.

Instead he'd stuck around and taken on the lion's share of Buffy's patrolling duties. She was sure that a lot of that was because it provided a safe outlet for his natural vampiric aggression. But in between slaying demons he didn't _have_ to drop by the Bronze to exchange insults and shoot pool with Xander, or saunter into the Magic Box and argue with Giles over Manchester's chances against Birmingham, or wig Anya out by trying to raid the cash box. Or take her on after-dark excursions to Sunnydale Mall and point out the place where Buffy had exploded the Judge and demonstrate to her the finer points of the five-fingered discount. Spike would rather have been staked out to get a lethal suntan than admit it, but his actions had been saying for a long time now that he was family. Annoying, sarcastic, criminally-inclined family, but family nonetheless.

He didn't look happy at the moment. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees and fingers laced together. He had nice hands, but his nails were always bitten down to the quick. Buffy had complained about it once, and Dawn had observed that it was a little wiggy to obsess over the state of your mortal enemy's fingernails unless you spent an awful lot of time checking out his hands. Buffy had gone red as a beet and locked herself in the bathroom and refused to come out for an hour. At last Spike said, "They've got a better line on it than we did, snack-size. Will claims that they could bring her back for real. No decaying zombie Buffy this time. Only problem is it requires a spot of human sacrifice."

Dawn's fists clenched on her lap and she squeezed her eyes shut. "It's not fair," she whispered.

Spike sat down on the bed beside her. "Yeh, well, that was my reaction."

She looked at him suspiciously. Spike's pale blue eyes were glittering with that intent, predatory gleam they got when he was onto something, but he didn't seem as upset at the prospect as she'd have expected. "You're not telling me everything," she accused.

He raised a placatory hand. "Give us a mo', pet. There's two ways of stopping 'em. One, we crash the party Wednesday night and break a few heads. 'Course, then they'll probably try again next time the stars are right. Or..."

He stopped and she punched him in the arm, hard. "Or what?"

The vampire turned and looked at her, his angular face serious. "Dawn, love... Will's got a spell that can bring her back--bring her back _right_\--before they get to her. It's up to you if we use it. She's your sister. You're next of kin... you and your Dad, I suppose, but I don't think he's likely to deal well with me explaining it. Thing is, love, it requires some of your blood."

Dawn flinched and wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. She still dreamed of standing bound and helpless while the wind moaned through the struts of Glory's tower, dreamed of Spike's last agonized look as Doc flung him off into the empty wilderness of air and advanced on her, holding out the knife still wet with the vampire's blood. She usually woke up when the knife sliced into her ribs. Usually. After a couple of false starts, Spike reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the back. "If you can't do it, love, you can't. Say so, and we'll never talk about it again."

He meant that. She was sure of it. But he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice or the burning in his eyes, and she knew the answer he wanted more than breath or blood, the answer he was steeling himself not to get. For good or ill, Spike had always been a total loss at disguising his feelings. Now he was one big aching mass of Buffy-longing wrapped up in black leather and hope, and she wanted to hit him for putting this decision on her shoulders. Instead she reached up and took his hand, and felt the slight twitch of muscles in his fingers as he returned the pressure.

Before Buffy'd started hanging out with Angel, she'd always thought that vampires would be corpse-stiff or icy cold to the touch. Spike's hand was as pliant as her own, allowing for his greater strength, and no cooler than the air around them. _It's a good thing we don't live in Minnesota_. She squeezed as hard as she could; she knew she couldn't possibly hurt him. "I want her back too." Her throat was dry and the words hurt coming out. "But I don't want her back like... like Mom almost..."

"Christ, no!" Spike sounded appalled.

"So is Willow _sure_...?"

His head dropped. "Nothing's ever sure. But she was willing to stake more than her life on it."

Out in the living room the phone rang. Dawn ignored it, and in a moment she heard her father's voice answer. His words were indistinguishable through her closed door, though from the look of speculation which sprang into Spike's eyes, whatever was being said was something interesting. She took a deep shaky breath. "Then--"

"Dawn, honey!" her father called.

"I'm in my room, Dad! What do you want?"

Footsteps started down the hall, and Spike was on his feet and out the window in an instant. A minute later her father opened the door and stuck his head in. "Xander's fiancé just called. Mr. Giles' plane is coming in tomorrow afternoon, and she wanted to know if you'd like to go to the airport with them to pick him up." She must have looked surprised, because her father smiled slightly and said, "I wouldn't be asking if you wanted to go if I didn't think it was all right. I'm not a complete ogre."

Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes to the counterpane. "Dad... yes, I want to go. Thanks."

He looked at her in concern, and made a little motion as if to come in. He stopped before completing it. Well, she hadn't given him much incentive lately to think that comforting fatherly gestures would be appreciated. "Hon, are you all right?"

Dawn nodded, her eyes fixed on the loose seam. "I was just thinking about Mom." She pulled another thread out. "Do you know where her sewing kit is?"

He shook his head. "In storage with the rest of the furniture, I guess." After a moment he added "We can go over to the Store-All and look for it if you'd like."

It was just too strange, him standing there with that worried-beagle look, trying desperately to pick up the threads he'd let drop five years ago. Much as she'd wanted her father back over the years, the two of them didn't know how to fit together any longer. Maybe if she pretended that he was just some well-disposed stranger it would make it easier. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement on the windowsill: a pale hand adjusting its grip. Why was it easier to forgive Spike for a century's worth of murder and mayhem than to forgive her father for five years of simply having been elsewhere? _At least Spike was paying attention_ was just too twisted a concept, but it was uncomfortably close to the truth. "Maybe. I should probably get to bed. School tomorrow and all."

He stood there in the doorway looking at her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Goodnight, Dawn."

As the door closed behind him, Spike's platinum head cautiously reappeared in the window. This was like some bad episode of _Three's Company_ with demons, Dawn thought. "I'll do it," she said, before she could think about it anymore.

He broke into a grin which wasn't devilish in the slightest. It was as if someone had switched on the floodlights inside him. "Thanks, Little Bit. We're going to try it on Tuesday night, get a jump on the forces of unrighteousness. Will'll run interference with your Dad."

"Why can't we do it tonight?"

The corners of Spike's mouth took on a wry twist. "There's something Will needs to get hold of first."

  
*****  


"Very well." Rupert Giles looked round at the circle of tired, angry, and otherwise unhappy faces. "We're agreed on the second option, then?"

The planning session had gone as well as could be expected, which was not very. Wesley had checked in earlier; they had a few leads on the possible location of the people slated for sacrifice, but nothing concrete yet. Xander was glowering and depressed, Anya was snappish and nervous, Tara cowered whenever anyone spoke to her, Giles was jet-lagged, Willow was distracted and kept losing track of the discussion, and Spike lurked in a corner and insulted everyone impartially. Half a dozen arguments broke out and a good time was not had by all.

If he starts fiddling with those bloody specs one more time I'm going to smash them, Spike thought. Giles immediately took off his glasses and began polishing them, and the vampire gritted his teeth and restrained his baser impulses. "Yes, we're going with the stupider option," he growled. "Are we done yet?"

Giles shot him an intensely annoyed look. Willow, whose gaze had been fixed blankly on a spot approximately six inches above Xander's right shoulder, started and shook her head. "Um. Um, yeah. Second option." She looked helplessly at Tara. "What was the second option again?"

"Disguise the guys as the van people," Tara reminded her.

It wasn't really all that stupid a plan, though Spike was feeling too contrary at the moment to admit it. Willow and Tara could provide the necessary glamour. Spike was secretly rather sorry that they wouldn't get to use it.

He hoped.

"Right!" Willow nodded her head vigorously. "We'll get on it. I'll go over to the campus library and, um, see if they have anything on disguise spells in their occult collection? Tara, you look through the books we've got back in the dorm. We need something that'll stand up to some pretty rough handling."

"Willow," Giles said, "There's something I'd like to speak to you about, if you don't mind."

Willow made an 'eek!' face. "Can it wait till tomorrow?"

"I suppose so--"

"Cool. I'm much more of a tomorrow person tonight. Later, Tara!"

There was doubt in Tara's eyes, but she nodded agreement and picked up her book bag. As the shop door bell jingled behind the departing Willow, Spike got to his feet. "Right. If that's settled, I'll be off, then. Places to go, things to kill, busy night all round."

There was only the barest touch of fall in the night air. Spike headed straight for home through he darkened streets, head down and hands in pockets. Willow had estimated that the spell might take an hour, so with any luck they'd be done with it before midnight and he could do a round or two of patrolling before heading over to the Fish Tank... or possibly Willy's; he was spoiling for a good fight and showing his face at Willy's these days was a sure guarantee of getting one.

As he usually did nowadays, he approached the crypt from downwind and paused to listen before entering. Since becoming a major thorn in the side of Sunnydale's demon population, he'd been subject to an average of one attempted ambush a month--there was no magical law keeping uninvited guests from sneaking into a vampire's lair. It probably would have been wisest to move his quarters elsewhere, but it would only be a matter of time before someone found him again, and Spike was nothing if not stubborn. The crypt was his, he'd gotten it set up the way he liked it, with electricity and convenient access to the vast labyrinth of the Sunnydale sewer system, and he was damned if he was going to let anyone drive him out before he was ready to leave on his own.

Tonight there was no one (or no thing) waiting for him. He went inside and began hunting for matches. He didn't have long to wait for Willow; she arrived, out of breath, just as he was lighting the last of the candles. She plunked her blue nylon duffle down on the lid of the sarcophagus, unzipped it, and began pulling things out: more candles, a smudge stick of pungent herbs (though not, to Spike's great relief, any more garlic) a selection of what looked like chicken bones, and some less identifiable objects. Last of all she took out a palm-sized, smoky crystal sphere.

"Need to set up anyplace special?" Spike asked.

Willow shook her head. "This is already way more atmospheric than a hospital bed. It just has to be flat." She patted the lid of the sarcophagus. "This'll do."

The banks of candles the niches in the crypt walls had grown measurably shorter by the time Willow had everything laid out on the cold marble slab of the lid. Spike, sitting cross-legged on one end of the sarcophagus, watched and smoked as Willow made yet another nervous adjustment to the assortment of magical paraphanalia. In the center of the arrangement was the Orb, sitting on a small red velvet pillow. The same one, he wondered, as that other Orb had sat on, three and a half years ago now? Around it were four short candles in square glass holders, each set at one of the cardinal directions. A fifth, taller candle was set off to one side. Between the smaller ones were the chicken bones, arranged in careful runic patterns. Around the central clump of objects were scattered the various little fetishy things he couldn't have named on a bet. He pointed at the candle Willow had just exchanged with one of the others. "I think that one's back where it started, pet."

"Gah." Willow stared at the arrangement for a moment, rubbed her eyes, and gave up. "I guess we're ready." She climbed up onto the opposite end of the sarcophagus and sat down. She handed him a bundle of computer print-outs. Spike glanced over them uneasily.

"You're positive this thing cuts off before making me all soul-having?"

Willow, who was flipping through a book of incantations, nodded. "It's only the first part of the spell. I might be able to fix the whole curse thing if I worked on it, but it would probably take me another four months... here it is." She squared her shoulders and sat up straight, the candlelight making red-gold highlights in her hair. "You're going to have to do both the Latin and the stinky herbs. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." He adjusted his glasses, lit the smudge stick in the taller, separate candle, and read, "Quod perditum est, invenietur."

Willow intoned, "Not dead, nor not of the living."

The scent of burning herbs was thick in the still air of the crypt, mingling with the hot waxy odor of the candles. "Qui errat, inveniat pacem!"

"Aid us, powers of the upper air! Gather, ye of light and ye of darkness! Bring to me what I seek!"

"Qui disiunctus est, reficiatur!"

"We call upon the powers of the East."

"Audite et oboedite!"

"We call upon the powers of the West."

"Audite et oboedite!"

"We call upon the powers of the North."

"Audite et oboedite!"

"We call upon the powers of the South."

"Audite et oboedite!"

As Willow called out the invocation to each of the powers, Spike touched the smudge stick to each of the other candles in turn; though it was already smouldering, the smell intensified. "We call forth the soul of William the Bloody, lost to this world in Anno Domine 1880. By Akthiel, Arrundel, and Moleb do we call it. Yea, though it be at the ends of time we call it. Yea, though it be at the ends of space we call it."

Willow's body was tense with the power thrumming through her, hands clenched, eyes wide and dark and alight with reflected flame. However, she hadn't started spouting Romanian yet, which Spike took to be a good sign. In the heart of the Orb, a feeble spark of light glowed for a moment. A wave of nausea hit him out of left field, and the vampire swayed, blinking down at the pages he was holding. The letters swam before his eyes for a moment, then cleared. He managed to choke out the next line. "Redite, redite, redite!"

If Willow noticed his momentary hesitation, she was too far gone in the spell to do anything about it. "Gods, bind him!"

"Aaah!" Something inside him wrenched, and Spike dropped the herbs, clutching at his chest. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. It wasn't a physical pain; it couldn't be pinned down or described. He felt as if he were being slowly pulled apart, atom by atom. "Will...!"

Willow kept going, arms uplifted, her face rapt. "Cast his heart from the demon realm! Return his soul to the world of light! I call on you, Gods, do not ignore this supplication! Let the orb be the vessel to carry his soul to him!" The crackling aura of magic in the crypt built to a crescendo. Willow flung her arms wide, then brought her hands together in over the Orb in a clap that shook the crypt. The candles went out, the Orb burst into light, and the intolerable pull on Spike's insides cut off as mysteriously as it had started.

Released, he doubled over and tumbled off the sarcophagus, rolling across the dusty floor until he banged into the armchair and lay there, staring dazedly up at the cobwebby ceiling. He drew a couple of ragged breaths and shook his head, hard. Willow, looking as drained and dazed as he felt, was carefully climbing down from the lid, feeling for the floor with her toes.

"Spike, are you OK?" She made her way across the floor as if she were walking on the deck of a ship in a high sea.

He took off his mercifully unbroken glasses, rubbed his forehead, sat up and leaned back against the armchair, taking stock. "I think so. What the bloody hell was that, Will?"

She sat back on her heels, frowning. "I don't know. Nothing like that happened last time. The spell worked." She indicated the Orb, which was glowing merrily on its cushion.

Spike looked down and patted himself over suspiciously. He had an unreasonable desire to look in a mirror and see if anything had changed, but that was hardly practical. The Grand Poof had said that losing his curse-enforced soul had been painful, but he hadn't a soul to lose; couldn't have been that. He couldn't recall if Angel had ever mentioned anything about what getting it back had felt like. The two of them hadn't exactly been on speaking terms since that had happened. In any case, that couldn't have been it either; whatever else it might feel like, he was fairly certain that the return of the soul of the man he'd been would leave him prostrate with guilt... wouldn't it? "You're sure that cut off before the soul-putting-in part?"

"Absolutely." Willow was rubbing her temples. "I didn't even put the last few lines of the spell on the printouts, just to make sure. How do you feel?"

What was a nice horrific memory? _1954, little village outside Seville, seven drained, mangled and artistically arranged corpses lying in a row... no, the last one was still twitching, madness in its eyes. Dru lectured Miss Edith and he waited with fond impatience for her to finish with this lot. They ought to be moving on, but he could never bear to deny his Princess her fun.._. He thought that one over, and then called up to his mind's eye a few of the particularly egregious massacres he'd participated in with Angelus during the first twenty years of his undeath.

He didn't revel in remembering the deaths--the fights, yes, the good ones still brought a warm nostalgic glow--but quite besides the uneasy feeling that human death spurred in him nowdays, he'd gotten bored with Angelus' style of massacre ages ago. They were so... impersonal. No challenge. All art, no fun. He didn't feel any real guilt either, and he knew damned well what it was to feel guilt--all he had to do was think back to the worst night of his life and the last night of Buffy's. He'd killed them, he didn't feel like doing it again, and that was that.

He drew a breath of relief. "Refreshingly soul-free." He got up and dusted off his jeans, and walked back over to the sarcophagus. He picked up the Orb and examined it curiously. It was slightly warm to the touch, and the light within it faded and brightened irregularly. He tossed the Orb up in the air and caught it. "So this is it? Not all that impressive."

"Don't drop it!" Willow yipped.

Spike grinned. "No fear, Will. I'll look after it as if it were my very own." He rolled the sphere around in his palm.

"You'd better. With the weird way you reacted I don't want to have to do this all over again." Equally curious, she poked the sphere gently with one finger. "Wow. So that's a soul, huh? I never got a chance to look at Angel's, since we put it right back into him." She looked up at him searchingly, her eyes no longer dark with the power of the spell but human and worried. "Are you sure you're all right? For few minutes there you looked pretty hairy."

He shrugged. The mysterious internal tugging seemed to have left no ill-effects. "I'm fit as I've ever been, pet. Whatever it was, it's gone now."

Willow frowned, her expression drifting dangerously close to resolve face. "I'm more worried about it coming back."

"Oh, come on, Will." Spike hopped up on the sarcophagus and crouched there like some lithe feline gargoyle. "You're not going to back out because yours truly had a tummyache for a moment, are you? I'm fine." He held up his left hand, fingers raised in a Boy Scout salute. "Vampire's honor."

She snorted. "Is there any such thing?"

After Willow had packed up the remains of the spell and left, Spike stood in the doorway of the crypt for a moment, looking out into the darkness. The wind had picked up outside, and a few dry leaves blew in through the high barred window of the crypt. Autumn ought to smell like bonfires and gunpowder. He ought to introduce Dawn to the proper celebration of Guy Fawkes' Day. Now that was a thought, nip across the border to get some fireworks... Her father would have apoplexy. Buoyed by this cheering scenario, Spike went downstairs to pick up a few weapons and a stake or two.

He rummaged through the tangle of ancient, rusty flails, maces, and assorted things with nasty sharp edges in the big steamer trunk where he kept most of his weapons. To his annoyance, his favorite axe wasn't in the trunk... he'd left it in the alley on Friday night, of course, after flinging it at Broom Guy. Bugger. Someone was sure to have nicked it by now, but he might as well take a look just in case. The night was young.

He settled for a smaller hatchet instead, and trotted back upstairs. About to head out into the night, he paused for a moment and fished the Orb out of his duster pocket. Wouldn't do to fall on it or anything. He knelt down to put it away in the crate for safekeeping and hesitated a moment, gazing into its flickering depths. His soul. Or William's soul, if you wanted to get technical. Even in life he'd had little hankering for a conventional harps-and-robes afterlife. Hopeless, starry-eyed pansy that he'd been, he'd yearned after something romantic, something Blakean and fey...and he'd gotten it. Spike gave a little growl of laughter and dropped the sphere into the crate. _Come on then, Tyger_. The forests of the night were waiting.

The graveyard was a wilderness of black and silver shadows in the light of the moon, only a few days away from full. Spike made a cursory sweep through the new graves, though he didn't expect to run into much here; this cemetary was his territory, and barring the occasional ambush, the other vampires in Sunnydale mostly avoided it. The rising breeze was moaning faintly in the treetops as he strode out through the wrought-iron gates, a shadow among shadows, and headed off towards Main.

The wind was alive with sound and scent, the darkness as transparent as noon to his eyes, and he flowed through the night like quicksilver, like death in ivory and jet. God, but he loved this feeling, loved the effortless power of his own body and the keenness of his senses and the challenge of pushing them to their limits. Past midnight on a Monday in Sunnydale, the houses and shops were shuttered and silent as he passed by, making thin pickings for any prowling vampire. If anyone were hunting tonight they'd be downtown or out by the docks, where there were always a few hookers or drunks to be had. He'd favored downtown himself back in the day--better class of meals.

Now and again he caught the hot salt scent of a living human, students or hookers or thieves or late-night drunks, and turned aside to follow them for awhile, alert for the presence of any others of his kind doing likewise. He'd track them for a block or two and be off again, slipping from street to street through alleys and back yards. Once in awhile the more perceptive among them would stop in the harsh pool of light cast by a streetlamp, looking uneasily over a shoulder, the hairs on the backs of their necks rising in response to his unseen presence, close enough, sometimes, that he could have reached out to touch a shoulder, caress a cheek, snap a neck...

Human blood had lost none of its allure for him; nights when he could beg, buy, or steal some were golden. The thought of feeding on a live human, though, raised such ambivalent emotions in him that he tried to avoid dwelling on it.

_He stared down at the girl in his arms. Her head lolled drunkenly on her broken neck, not quite dead yet but further beyond saving with every moment her lungs failed to pump. He could feel her heart faltering. Dru looked up from the boy, fangs dripping. The blood scent was maddening, delicious, nectar of the gods, and his princess's expression was both commanding and impatient. She'd killed for him, as he'd killed for her when she was too weak to hunt; why didn't he eat?_

_ He felt the last flutter die away in her chest and still it took a conscious effort to shift into game face. Even then he hesitated, and when he finally sank his fangs into the dead neck there was no joy in it, or in him. He'd never hated himself more, even as he drank like a starving thing, loving the blood burning its way down his throat..._

He still didn't understand that moment. He _couldn't_ have cared about the girl, whose only fault had been to be making out in the Bronze when Drusilla happened to get peckish. Doc's words on the tower came back to him sometimes: _I don't smell a soul anywhere on you. Why do you even care?_ Doc had meant about Dawn, but the question applied far more widely. Why did he care about any of these people? He was a vampire, killing was his nature, and he'd reveled in it for over a century. That he'd taken the opportunity to feed when Dru offered it was normal. That he'd felt even the slightest unease about it was... perverted. The only time he'd ever felt like that before had been the very first time, when Angelus had thrust the drunken, half-drained whore at newly-risen William and laughed at the shock and horror in his face when he realized what he was supposed to do, and worse, that it was what he _wanted_ to do. The orgasmic taste of blood had knocked that nonsense out of him right and proper, and he'd never looked back. Still, it was a little unnerving to remember that even after having lost his soul, tender-hearted William had balked at his first kill.

Until very recently, the question of what happened to the human soul when that human became a vampire had been one of supreme indifference to Spike. Even in the last year it was something he'd considered mainly in the context of _What's Angel got that I haven't, damn it?_ What _did_ Angel, with both a human soul and a demon constantly battling for dominance within him, have that he didn't?

Buffy had believed with all her heart that Angel and Angelus, man and demon, were completely different people. Angel believed it too. To have believed otherwise would probably have driven them both mad. But the line between William and Spike had always been dangerously fuzzy--why else had he devoted so much effort to ruthlessly erasing every trace of his human self? He'd told Willow that he wasn't William, and he wasn't. He knew he'd lost important parts of who William had been, and William had been an ineffectual, simpering little ponce anyway, but like it or not, William's life was in the first person for him, not the third. The person who'd clawed his way up out of the earth three days after his midnight encounter with Drusilla in a filthy London stable, ravenous for blood, had no memory of existence unshaped by William's thoughts, William's emotions, William's memories. By the same token it he'd never felt quite right referring, some vampires did, to 'his' demon as if it were some sort of family pet. The demon was his own temper, his own cruelty, his own bloodlust--not his, but _him_.

Of course, it was also his humor and a large part of his passion. And William, with his desire to look only upon the beauty of the world, had contributed a good portion of his indifference to human suffering. Dividing himself up into good and bad halves like some victim of a bloody transporter accident and trying to squash one of them just wouldn't work. _Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself; I am large, I contain multitudes... Oh, get over yourself, you wanker, and watch where you're walking_.

The alley where he'd killed the Ghora demon was in the poorer section of town, insofar as affluent middle-class Sunnydale boasted one, down close to the docks. Spike stalked through the empty streets, past overflowing trash bins and graffiti'd walls. He slowed as he approached the general area where the fight had taken place. He hadn't exactly been keeping close track of street signs during his pursuit of the Ghora, but after a few moments he recognized a storefront, a little carneciera which had moved into the previously abandoned building last winter. He slunk past the window full of brightly lettered placards with their specials in English and Spanish and around the next corner--yes, there was the head-sized hole he'd smashed in the brickwork in the process of breaking his fist.

He looked around. No axe. The alley was deserted, probably due to the fetid miasma of rotting demon-flesh. Spike gagged and beat a hasty retreat as the wind shifted and sent the overwhelming stink pouring out onto the street. Apparently the city hadn't gotten around to sending out whoever it was that cleaned up dead animals off the streets yet. He didn't envy them this job. At least vampires had the consideration to dissolve into dust upon being killed.

He was about to head off again when a noise caught his attention--the familiar rumble of a particular engine. Someone, apparently, was returning to the scene of the crime. He slipped into the shadow of the carneciera's doorway and waited until the van drove slowly past. _Bloody hell._ "Knew we should've killed them," he muttered. Obviously they considered Bryce's organization a bigger threat than two witches and a vampire, and were out trolling for more sacrifices.

Tonight was a bad night for it. Spike grinned. It was about to get worse.

He broke into a trot, then a run, across the pavement and onto the street, his boots making little noise on the asphalt. They couldn't have heard him coming over the noise of the engine anyway. He took a leap at the back of the van, which luckily had a step bumper, clung to the door handles and bashed the window in with the butt end of the hatchet handle. The introduction of shatterproof auto glass had made that task a lot less messy and dangerous than it had once been; the back window fractured into a mosaic of faintly greenish pebbles. Another blow pushed it in. The vampire kicked off the bumper and into the back of the van.

A dazed-looking girl was lying on the floor of the van, her arms twisted behind her back. Wrists and ankles both were both bound securely with wire, and an oily rag had been stuffed in her mouth. Smart; she'd started breathing as soon as he burst in. _What nice lungs you've got, Grandma, the better to be rescued with._ She stared up at him with eyes that blazed with hope, then hatred as she recognized him. She began to thrash on the filthy length of old carpet they'd laid her out on, trying to sweep his legs out from under him. Spike sidestepped her flailing and kicked her in the stomach, hard. Her eyes flared yellow and she snarled around the gag. "Yes, it's good old Spike, and you're going to be stone dead in a moment. Be quiet, ducks."

He flipped her over roughly and brought the blade of his hatchet down on her neck with one economical motion. As the spine was severed, breaking the mystic connection between body and the demon which inhabited it, she crumbled away into dust even before her blood had a chance to stain the blade. Not a twinge of inconvenient compassion now, he thought sardonically. He stepped up to the front of the rear compartment and peered through the window separating it from the passenger compartment. Driver Guy and Paint Guy were sitting in the front seat, their lips moving in an inaudible argument. The window was double-paned glass. It was also covered by a heavy mesh screen; he might be able to tear it out given time, but he certainly couldn't get through this window without alerting the driver and giving them opportunity to stop and get out.

What to do? He couldn't easily kill the wankers, much as he would have liked to. Ride around in here and stake their captives as soon as they tossed them in? Time-consuming, and ten to one they had the tranquilizer gun with them; he'd be a sitting duck if they saw him. Vespasian and possibly Bryce himself were arriving Wednesday morning, so the Van Guys had only tonight and tomorrow night to collect more vampires... Hah. If he couldn't take them out, he could bloody well take the van out of commission.

He opened the back doors of the van and stretched himself at full length, belly down on the floor of the compartment, head and shoulders leaning out over empty air. He scrunched over as close to the left rear wheel as possible, holding the door open with his right hand and hefting the hatchet in his left. He was right over the tailpipe, and very glad that he didn't have to breathe. Spike took a few practice swings and then let the hatchet fly at the tire.

THUNK! The hatchet was wrenched out of his hand, the tire exploded with a deafening bang and the van lurched, skidding to the left and throwing him against the tire well. They hadn't been going more than thirty miles an hour. The vampire somersaulted out of the open back and found his feet as the van shuddered to a halt. The hatchet, slightly the worse for wear, was lying on the pavement further back down the street, and Spike went to pick it up; no sense in losing two of them in one weekend. He strolled back to the van, swinging it in one hand, and by the time the Van Guys had piled out he'd put a sizeable dent in the rim of the wheel.

"Hey!" Driver Guy was yelling. He didn't have the trank gun so Spike ignored him, walking up to the front of the van and ripping the hood open. "What the hell are you--" He saw Spike's face, realized who he was, and immediately backpedaled.

"Sabotage, mate," the vampire replied cheerfully, putting the hatchet through the radiator with a resounding clang. A column of boiling steam hissed into the air and Spike jumped back. "Diabolically clever, innit?" He stuck the hatchet handle through his belt and stood back to admire his new fountain. "Now--got the boiling water, do I see a lobster?"

Paint Guy was coming around the other side of the van with the trank gun in hand. Spike shifted position to the side of the keep the bulk of the van in between them and ducked down, peering at the other man from beneath the raised hood. Paint Guy dropped down almost as quickly, whipping the gun up and taking aim. Spike jumped back, grabbed the hood, and slammed it down. It clipped the end of the muzzle of the gun, jerking it out of Paint Guy's hands, and Spike leaped over the hood in an instant.

Pain slammed through his head as his boots connected with Paint Guy's chest. Both of them went down, scrabbling for the gun. Luckily Paint Guy wasn't a large man (Spike had always been rather miffed about the fact that humans had kept getting larger over the last century; in life he'd been on the tall side of average, but the average had caught up with him some time in the nineteen-fifties. His only consolation was that Angel was in the same boat) and a hundred and sixty pounds of vampire landing on his chest was enough of a handicap that Spike didn't need to do much else. The breath went out of Paint Guy with a _whoof_! and his skull cracked nastily against the asphalt. Spike, desperately trying to suppress a yell of agony, didn't notice. Once the shocks faded and his vision returned to normal, he yanked the gun out of Paint Guy's hands and staggered backwards. "Right, lads," he gasped, "Are we going to get together and play patty-cake again tomorrow night, or are you going to blow town like sensible little minions before big bad Bryce discovers you've buggered things up again?"

Driver Guy stood there with his non-descript hair flopping into his face and his pale eyes darting back and forth, frozen. Spike looked down at Paint Guy, who hadn't moved, and his eyes widened a bit. Paint Guy's breathing was uneven, and he could smell the blood beginning to pool where the back of his head rested on the road. Spike strode over and grabbed him by the front of his coveralls, hoisted him into the air one-handed and shook him. Blood spattered onto the pavement. "Looks like your little friend's come all over dead." He flung the limp man onto the hood of the van; the radiator was still fizzling angrily underneath it. "Oh, well, three's a crowd. Just you and me tomorrow night, then, all cozy-like?"

Driver Guy broke and ran. Spike watched him go and heaved a sigh. He spared Paint Guy a look; he was still breathing, though probably not for long. He began to smile, then to chuckle, and finally he was laughing all out. He'd managed to beat a human within an inch of his life, even it had mostly been by accident. God, but that felt good. Better than good. Fan-bloody-tastic. He leaned against the van and considered. Be all white-hat and pussified, and take the bleeder to a hospital, or wait till he died and eat him? Spike stared at the man, licking his lips. After all, these were bonafide minions of evil and nastiness, not poor hapless sods of college students... maybe he wouldn't feel bad about it. Maybe it would be _fun_ again...

And maybe it wouldn't. "Oh, bugger," he said crossly, shouldering the trank gun and setting off down the street at a brisk walk.


	6. Chapter 6

The angle of the late afternoon sun left the porch of Giles' apartment in shadow as Willow came up the walk. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in his window and for a moment didn't recognize the self-assured, tastefully dressed young woman in the glass. Over the summer she'd made an effort to get herself some of what she thought of as 'grown-up clothes', but she still felt like an impostor wearing them. Inside she was still wearing plaid jumpers and regrettable flowered hats, and she was still nervously expecting the rest of the world to notice any moment.

As she drew closer to the door she could see Giles and Tara inside on the couch. _Tara? What was she doing here?_ Giles was pouring milk in his tea (ugh) and Tara was talking earnestly. She edged closer to the window. "...I think this whole thing is really getting to her," Tara said, taking a bite of her bagel. She put the bagel down and began fidgeting with her teacup, turning it round and round on the saucer in her knee. "She missed a class today. Willow doesn't miss classes even for apocalypses."

"She did seem a trifle distracted last night." Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Not that I can blame her. This has been an extremely distressing situation."

"I just hope... the last few days she's been... I think..."

Rats. Tara knew her too well, and Willow had never been any good at deception. Stunningly bad at deception was closer to the mark. And while Spike was a master of half-truths and unerring verbal jabs at an opponent's sorest spots, maintaining a complex web of lies was not his style, either. If this went on much longer she'd get nervous and he'd get careless and both of them would spill everything they knew like a broken pinata. Unless Dawn sat on both of them first. Dawn was the one who was really good at sneaky stuff. But they only had to make it through tonight...

Willow realized that her grown-up high heels were sinking slowly into the damp earth of the flowerbed under the window--not that Giles had ever bothered to improve on the sad collection of elephant's-ear and nondescript viney things that the landlord had put in--and stepped away from the window and onto the porch. She knocked on the door hard. After a minute Giles peered through the peephole. "Ah. Come in, Willow."

He undid the latch and Willow did so, trying to look cheery and unsecretive. She bounced nervously across the room to the couch, dumping her book bag on the couch and kissing Tara on the top of her head. "Hi, sweetie!" She sat down on the couch and snagged Tara's half-finished bagel. "I'm so glad you're back, Giles!" she said through a mouthful of pineapple cream cheese.

Giles looked slightly embarrassed at the excess of emotion. "It's good to see all of you again. I did miss all of you. Even Xander, which disturbs me more than I can say."

Willow examined him covertly. Giles had been as broken up over Buffy's death as Spike had been, though he'd dealt with his grief far less flamboyantly than the vampire had. The trip seemed to have done him some good; recovered from the transatlantic flight, at first glance he seemed to be his usual composed, tweedy self. On second glance, he still looked... old. Or maybe just very, very tired. It wasn't that he'd gone grey overnight or anything, or even that there were obvious new lines on his face. More as if something vital had gone out of him with Buffy's death, and he moved as if twenty years had dropped on his back.

With forced cheer Willow said, "It's been pretty quiet up till now, except for--oooh, did I tell you I finally got that sunlight spell to work last month? It's really great, except it doesn't aim very well yet and I almost incinerated Spike by accident. So what did you want to ask me about?"

Giles took a sip of his tea and set the cup down. He looked serious. Not good. "Several things, actually. I wanted you to be the first to know that I've decided to return to England permanently." At her little cry of distress he shook his head very slightly. "I haven't a purpose here any longer, Willow. A Watcher with no Slayer is rather a useless appendage. To be brutally frank I've not had a purpose here since Buffy started college. Had we ever gotten the opportunity to begin a true exploration of the source of her power that might have changed, but with Joyce's illness and dealing with Glory..." He made a dismissive gesture. "And you--you're an extraordinarily talented researcher, and you and Tara have far exceeded my modest magical talents."

"That's not true!" Willow protested. "Maybe the magic part, but Giles, you've got twenty years of experience and that's something it'll take me twenty years to get! And what about the shop?"

He chuckled dryly. "I'm flattered. But this visit reminded me of how much I miss living in a place which has weather."

The two witches' eyes met. "We can do weather."

Giles flicked an eyebrow at the window, through which could be seen the relentlessly warm, bright, perfect late October day, and allowed himself a restrained shudder. "Please don't. The Council has a research position available in Cambridge," he went on, "And after the last five years... I have to say that the prospect of spending some time dealing solely with dry, uninvolving facts has a certain appeal. Anya's proved more than capable of running the shop." He paused, lost in thought for several moments. "But I'm not leaving immediately. I've agreed to take on one last project here."

"A big, complicated, years in the making project?" Willow asked. "I hope?"

Giles smiled slightly. "Months in the making, perhaps. The Council would like me to put together a formal report on the behavioral changes we've observed in Spike since the Initiative inflicted the chip on him." He set his teacup down on the coffee table, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of his chest. "Willow, you've been an invaluable research assistant, you have a remarkable capacity for synthesis, and Spike appears to respect you. I'd be honored if you'd be my co-author."

Willow's eyes went wide and she clapped her hands together with delight. "Oh! I'd love to! Er," she straightened and put on the Grown-Up Face. "Thank you, Giles. I'd be honored to participate." Her expression went thoughtful. "I hope the Council isn't asking how well the chip worked, cause that's hard to say when we don't know what the Initiative scientists were shooting for to begin with."

"Very true." Giles tapped his glasses against his chin reflectively. "Spike was code-named Hostile 17, and we've no inkling what happened to Hostiles one through sixteen. We've never run into another chipped vampire, though one without the, er, support system Spike had after his escape quite likely would have starved to death. Unless... I wonder. Those...er... women Riley was involved with. Perhaps we should make some effort to see if any of them were former guests of the Initiative. It would be instructive to find out how they reacted."

Willow winced. Buffy had been rabid about the vampire brothel for a week or so after Riley's abrupt departure, but none of their investigations had turned up any leads as to where it might have moved to. In discussing the matter with her much later, Spike had privately opined that they'd moved out of Sunnydale altogether, the only prudent move a vampire could make when the Slayer was on the warpath. "Yeah. If we could find any of them. A statistical sample of one is practically useless."

"That is a problem," Giles admitted. "But a detailed case study of Spike is infinitely better than no information at all. Besides, it's a good opportunity to add to the Council's storehouse of vampire lore in general."

"I thought that the Council knew everything about vampires already?" Tara asked curiously. She'd kicked her shoes off and drawn her feet up under her on the couch, and Willow was momentarily distracted by how cute her toes looked peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

Giles' lips quirked. "It's astonishing the amount of new information that comes to light when you have one tied up in your bath for a week." He stirred his tea absently. "It's not surprising, really; the Council is dedicated to wiping vampires out, not celebrating their lives and times. Not to mention that in the past it's been all but impossible to safely converse with a vampire for any length of time."

Willow giggled. "We'll be doing '_Interview with the Vampire_'! And Spike hates Anne Rice."

"Well, we'll make the attempt." Giles' voice was dry. "Angel was always reluctant to talk about himself at all, whereas the difficulty with Spike is in getting him to stop talking about himself. We'll probably be faced with the task of winnowing out a few, er, colorful exaggerations." He took off his glasses and began polishing them. "In a way it's a pity that we can't have a more typical specimen to work from, but then, we know so little about vampire society that we don't even know for certain how atypical he is."

Willow bit her lip. "Atypical? Angel's got the soul, but what's atypical about Spike? I mean, besides the whole Buffy thing." And would whatever it was cause strange reactions to soul-retrieval spells, and what was an un-strange reaction to a soul-retrieval spell anyway? Angel had been a mile away when she'd done his, and there was no one living left who'd been witness to what his reaction had been. Maybe what had happened to Spike last night had been perfectly normal.

She got up and went out to the kitchen to make herself some tea, wishing guiltily for tea bags while the teakettle heated. Giles and Spike both would go off on rants about the superiority of properly brewed loose tea at the drop of a hat, but she couldn't taste much difference herself. Then she recalled that Giles wouldn't be here forever. She could deal with loose tea until then.

The kettle whistled and she poured the hot water into her cup. "Quite a number of things," Giles was saying as she returned to the living room. "He's retained an extraordinary number of human traits. Far more so than Angel, really, even if half of them are vices of one sort or another. Living under the influence of the chip seems to have strengthened them." He looked thoughtful. "He's displayed behaviour bordering upon the truly selfless on several occasions, which ought to be impossible for a soulless creature. The Council's question is, would any chipped vampire have the same potential for change, or is Spike unique for some reason? Not that it's practical to chip vampires en masse, even if we could reproduce the technology..."

"Dawn thinks the chip acts like a soul," Tara said. She hugged her knees. "I don't see how it can."

"No, the chip only prevents physically aggressive behavior towards humans. Hardly a moral compass."

"So it's not like Spike could have little pieces of soul left by accident or something?" Willow asked nervously. Maybe he was just allergic to the presence of his old soul... he'd seemed to recover once it was contained in the Orb.

Giles tilted his glasses down and regarded her over the top of the lenses. "I sincerely doubt it. No, it's more likely that his human personality was simply exceptionally well-suited to amalgamate with the demon soul which ousted his original human soul. One of the most intriguing things we've learned in the last few years is degree to which the original human personality can survive in some vampires. If William the Bloody was indeed the unregenerate blackguard that Spike's represented him as, it's not surprising that he was the perfect host for a demon. As a consequence, the human aspects of his personality have survived--preserved in amber, if you will--rather than atrophying over time or being subsumed in the demon's bloodlust."

Recalling Spike's offhand comment about her invented version of his youth being more exciting than the real one, Willow had her doubts about the unregenerateness of Spike's human self. "But if he was a poophead as a human, why would the chip bringing out his human side make him a better person now?"

"There are a few flaws in the theory," Giles admitted. "But I think it's worth pursuing. Pity we can't include Harmony in the study. She'd be an invaluable source of data, as you knew her before she was turned."

Willow nodded. "It's hard to tell the difference between vampire Harmony and non-vampire Harmony. Except for the blood drinking thing, and Xander and I always kinda suspected..." She glanced towards the window. The sun was starting to go down at last, and she and Spike still had to figure out how to get Dawn away from her father's place on a school night. She jumped to her feet and grabbed her book bag. "Giles, this is really exciting! In fact, I think I'll go talk to Spike about it tonight--you know, set up a schedule, work out a list of questions--"

Tara sat back against the couch cushions, tossed her honey-blond hair back over her shoulders, and pinned Willow with that I-can-see-right-through-you look which could be either incredibly sexy or, as now, incredibly guilt-making. "I thought we were going to work on the disguise spell for tomorrow night."

"We are," Willow said, uncomfortably aware of how unconvincing she sounded. "Just... later. I promise. I'm going to take a sick day tomorrow and... we'll get everything done then." She gave them both a little wave and a feeble grin, and dashed for the door.

Tara watched her go and heaved a sigh. "You see what I mean?" she said. "I'm really afraid th-they're up to something."

  
*****  


"So," Xander said an hour or so later, when he and Anya and Tara and Giles were all gathered around Gile's kitchen table. "Let me get this straight. What you're saying is that for the last couple of days Spike has been rude and secretive and Willow has been lost in research." He laced his fingers together and leaned forward with an expression of dire seriousness. "And this differs from their normal behavior how?"

Tara blushed and ducked her head. "There's more than that. I was cleaning up the dorm room yesterday, and I found this under Willow's desk." She reached inside her purse and took out two sheets of crumpled paper. She laid them out carefully on the kitchen table. One was obviously much older than the other, slightly yellowed, with faded dot-matrix printing. A number of notes were scribbled in the margins of the newer one in blue ballpoint. They were in Willow's neat handwriting.

Giles reached over and took the older paper, which consisted only of a list of spell components, some of which were crossed off, and smoothed out the wrinkles, an old pain growing in his eyes as his fingers traced the faded lines. "Good Lord..." He looked up. "These are the items necessary for the ritual Jenny Calendar developed to restore Angel's soul."

Tara hunched her shoulders and drew her sweater closer around herself, shivering a little. "Do you think she's trying to give Spike back his soul? That might not be too bad."

Giles shook his head, baffled. "Perhaps. The last time she cast that spell she lost control of it completely. Would Spike cooperate in such a thing? He's never given any indication that he wants it back. And why would she be undertaking such a project now?" He picked up the other, newer sheet of paper, his brows knit. The concern in his eyes grew as he skimmed over the contents. "Tara, this is most alarming. I don't recognize the ritual, but the powers called upon here..."

"Spike would cooperate because Buffy's coming back, and he wants to be soul-having when she does?" Anya's words were utterly matter-of-fact as always. "Well, don't stare at me like that, she is. Unless we stop them. And do all of us really want to stop them? I know you're going to do it, Xander, but you don't want to."

Tara looked stricken. "Oh... she wouldn't..."

"Damn." Xander's fist clenched as though he wanted to slam it on the table, but he didn't. "Oh, damn. Maybe she wouldn't, but what do you bet Spike would? And God knows why, but Will's always had a soft spot for Spike. Hell, if any of the rest of us had walked in on him trying to stake himself last year, he'd be blowing in the wind right now, if you get my drift." He sat back, his voice growing bitter. "Why the hell does he always do this? You play a little pool with someone and start getting the idea that he's maybe perhaps not evil incarnate any longer and then he goes and chains Buffy up and tries to feed her to his ex, or starts cheerleading for a human sacrifice! Why?" He switched positions in his chair. "NO SOUL, moron!" He switched back, smacking himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Ohhhhh, riiiiigght!"

Anya laid a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. "There, there, honey. Unlike some people, I'm really human now and therefore have a soul... I think... and will never, ever hurt you. Unless you cheat on me. Then I'd kick you in the kneecaps."

Giles' expression was grim. "I have difficulty believing that Willow would be knowingly involved in something like this. Preventing a suicidal vampire from ending his existence is not precisely in the same league as aiding that vampire in performing... or preventing the interruption of... a dark ritual involving the deaths of five innocents. Willow can be rash, even vengeful when angry, but she's never deliberately harmed an innocent." He began fiddling with his glasses again, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. "The hypothesis that Willow and Spike want to give Spike his soul back would fit what little evidence we have. Assuming that they intend to allow Buffy to be brought back is more of a stretch. In the unlikely event that Buffy is brought back, she would, I presume, still harbor no romantic feelings towards Spike. And even were she to fall into his arms, if Willow restores his soul that would merely put them in the same situation she's in with Angel. None of this quite adds up."

"Spike might let someone die to get Buffy back, but I know Willow wouldn't," Tara said. "And if Spike's planning something that awful, why would he want to get his soul back just in time to make him f-feel horrible about it?" Tara had retrieved the page with the incomplete spell on it and was still studying it. "Th-this is strange," she said. She tapped the paper with a finger, tracing several of the handwritten notes. "Willow's making really extensive changes in the original ritual here, and here. Not so much in the words, but in the spell components--look, here she's changed the salt out for quartz crystals. That's..." Her quiet voice faded out entirely, and little puzzled lines appeared between her eyebrows. "Added an invocation to Thespia... OK, I can see that... but this part where she's adding a triune repetition of the censor circling the ritual space... and the... Why would she be doing that?" She set the page down in frustration. "I wish we had the rest of this spell! It looks like..."

"WHAT?" Xander asked, impatient.

Tara bit her lip. "All the things she's added here... they're not exactly changes in the basic spell, but they're all things calculated to... intensify the effect of the Laws of Association."

Giles and Anya nodded. Xander said "Again I say, what?"

"The Laws of Association. They're some of the basic tenets of spellcrafting." Tara got that perky magic-geek look which presaged an incomprehensible lecture on insect doubles or the like. "The Law of Similarity is 'Like things produce like things', or that an effect resembles its cause. Using the Law of Similarity you can produce an effect by imitating it. That's why I straighten out something bent as a component of my truth spell; it symbolizes straightening out the subject's words. And that's the reason Buffy was able to... to die in Dawn's place, because Dawn was made from her essence, and her blood and Dawn's blood both produced the same effect on the portal.

"Then there's the Law of Contact or Contagion, 'Things which have once been in contact continue to affect each other, even after physical contact has been severed.' The Law of Contact is what's behind a lot of location spells and the like--if you have something that touched what you're looking for, it will lead you to it, and like that, but it's used for other things, too. Anyway, the things Willow's changed here are all things which would boost the effects of the Laws of Association on this spell. And that's really dangerous."

"Um... if these are the basic tenets of spellcasting..." Xander sounded dubious.

"Used judiciously, yes. Like anything else, they're subject to abuse. If I understand the technique Tara's describing correctly, it would be most useful when one is working with less than optimal components," Giles said.

Tara nodded. "Right. A location spell works best if you have a personal item to focus it. If all you can get is something that wasn't very personal, then boosting the effects of the Law of Contact will help the spell to succeed."

"Ah! It's like overclocking a CPU," Anya said. "Souped up like that, the spell will pick up correspondences which would ordinarily be too faint to make it work. You get much better performance." She shrugged. "Until it all melts down into a heap of slag because you don't have a large enough heat sink."

Xander went pale. "Like that computer Will built a couple of months ago and tried to clock the processor up to two gigs..."

"Yeah," Tara whispered. "Like that. She's going t-to get k-k-killed or w-worse!" She choked on tears. She hadn't wanted to break down; she wasn't someone who could cry prettily. Her nose got red and her eyes got bleary. Giles, unconcerned with esthetics at this point, pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her.

"Right, then. It may not be clear precisely what Willow's intentions are, or how Spike's involved, but obviously we need to have a discussion about this."

Tara blew her nose. "Y-yes..."

Giles stood up decisively. "Come on, then. We've got to find her now; we can't afford any surprises tomorrow tonight. Tara, call home and see if Willow's there; if not, we'll go check the crypt."

  
*****  


Silence, broken only by the scrape of Dawn's fork as she pushed her mashed potatoes around on her plate. Hank Summers chewed glumly and watched the top of his daughter's bowed head. "So how was school?"

Dawn's attention diverted itself briefly from her potato sculpture, and she shrugged, a barely visible lift of one shoulder. "OK."

God, it was Buffy at fifteen all over again. Polite, superficially cheerful, and as distant as the moon, off in a world of her own. A world full of vampires and demons and things that went bump in the night which had ground Buffy up and spit her out and damn it, what was wrong with living in the world of cell phones and Mid-East crises for a change? Any day now the phone would start ringing with grim-sounding teachers or God forbid, police officers on the other end of the line. "_Mr. Summers, we need you to come pick up your daughter..."_ He'd been through that once, and he didn't need it again. Not with Linda already pissed off about the prospect of his daughter coming to live with them. Only three years, he'd repeated over and over again, only three years till she'll go off to college, dammit, Linda, she's my daughter...

Whom he didn't know from Adam. "I thought we might go shopping tomorrow. Get you something for your new school..."

The minimalist shrug again, accompanied by a roll of her eyes. "I'm not Buffy, Dad. You can't buy me with shoes." There was more humor than hostility in her tone. Good sign. Dawn looked up from her plate, cautious entreaty in her eyes. "Dad... when we go back to L.A. can I come up here on weekends sometimes to see the gang?"

So she'd reconciled herself to moving. Better sign. Hank got up and collected their plates and dumped them in the sink. It was Dawn's turn to wash up, and he weighed the pros and cons of reminding her of the fact when they were having a half-way civil conversation. He couldn't wait to get home and have someone else take care of this domestic crap for him again; since he wasn't on a company expense account for this trip, he'd thought he'd save a little taking this place for the month instead of staying at a hotel, but at least a hotel had maid service. "Your friends at school?" he asked warily. Dawn gave her hair an offhand flip and attempted to look nonchalant.

"Yeah. And Willow and Xander and Mr. Giles. You know. Xander and Anya are getting married in December and I'm supposed to be the flower girl. It's lame, but I promised."

"I don't see why you couldn't come to the wedding," he said, carefully refraining from committing to anything else. Dawn's eyes lit up. "And I don't mind if you visit your school friends here, but frankly, some of Buffy's friends worry me. They're obviously involved in a lot of dangerous... games, or stunts, and you could get hurt. Besides, they're all so much older than you are."

A slight flush mantled her cheeks. Her eyes dropped to her lap, and she began fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "You mean Spike, don't you? He probably won't be here. He was talking about moving to L.A. himself," she said with careful indifference. "He's got... family there."

Hank counted to ten. "Dawn, I'm sure Spike is... very nice when you get to know him, but--"

Dawn folded her arms defensively across her chest. "No, he's not. That's why I like him."

In a matter of moments she'd gone from careful indifference to full-fledged hostile glare. Hank sighed inwardly. The rest of the conversation was doomed; no matter what he said now she'd take it as an attack on her... not boyfriend, please God, let it not have gone that far yet, but it was blindingly obvious that Dawn idolized the... whatever he was. Hank didn't want to even think 'vampire' lest he start taking the concept seriously. All right, the guy's hands were a little cooler than normal and he hadn't been breathing, but lots of people had cold hands and maybe he'd been holding his breath.

The part where he'd turned into a yellow-eyed demon with brow ridges and a grin full of inch-long fangs was a little harder to explain away, but Hank was sure he could do it if he worked at it hard enough. "If Spike wants to move to L.A. I can't stop him," he said neutrally. "It's a free country. Can you blame me if I worry about a--" What, twenty-five? Thirty-five? Impossible to say. "--much older man with no visible means of support who wants to hang out with a fifteen-year-old girl?"

Dawn shot back, "Considering that you never said a word about Buffy sucking face with Angel when she was only a year older than me--"

That tore it. "If Buffy or your mother had ever seen fit to mention Buffy's so-called secret life to me I'd've had a lot of words to say, and if I ever catch you and Spike 'sucking face' his ass will be in jail so fast--"

Dawn's expression progressed from hostile glare to pure fury, but the further degeneration of his relationship with his younger daughter was spared by the ringing of the phone. Dawn jumped up, the legs of her chair screeching on the linoleum, and ran to get it before he could get to his feet. Hank slumped, head in hands. Why did he let himself get sucked into these stupid no-win arguments with a teenager? By definition, any argument with a teenager was no-win. He should just keep his mouth shut and get a restraining order.

"Hello?" Dawn said into the phone, winding the cord around one arm. Her voice was shaking only slightly. "No. Not now. Sorry." She shot her father an unreadable look. "Yeah. Fine. Dad thinks Spike's a pervert and I'm a pervert enabler, is all. Yeah. Right." She slammed down the phone in its cradle. "I'm going to my room."

So much for the dishes. "Who was that?"

"Willow," Dawn spat. "Want to star 69 and check?"

  
*****  


_The tower was about a million miles high, and it vibrated under the constant battering wind. The rope was cutting into her wrists, and her arms ached. She couldn't see the ground, only the black spiderwebbing of girders and cable silhouetted against the roiling, blood-red clouds. Lightning crawled through the scaffolding below, and every time it flared she could see that the old man had gotten a little closer. Light glittered along the edges of the knife he carried, held out casually in one hand._  
_ When he reached her, she would die._  
_ There was someone on the catwalk behind the old man, and Dawn clenched her jaw as hard as she could_ don't say anything don't say anything don't say anything this time Spike can get the jump on him_ but it never worked, and she cried out "SPIKE!" in hope and terror, just as she always did, and the old man turned as saw the vampire coming, just as he always did, and it was all her fault for being such a feeble little coward..._

_And the two of them were grappling there, a million miles up in the air, and Spike was fast but Doc was faster and it had only been a few days since Glory had beaten Spike to a pulp and his ribs weren't quite healed yet and that was her fault too for being the Key and Doc's knife plunged into the vampire's back up to the hilt, right in the kidneys, and came out gleaming with blood Spike couldn't spare right now, and then Spike was falling, falling, and Doc was advancing on her with the knife dancing in the air between them..._

_Shallow cuts, shallow cuts..._

_And the knife sliced into her, still wet with his blood, drawing lines of fire and ice across her stomach..._

_And she died_.

Dawn woke with a breathless scream, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. That was the good version of the dream. In the bad one, Buffy died. She sat there for a moment, whimpering a little, until her breathing returned to something approaching normal. She looked over at the nightstand. The glowing blue numbers on her clock radio read 12:36. She hadn't intended to fall asleep, though she hadn't slept well for the last few nights. She'd thought that her mad-on at her Dad would keep her up if nothing else did. She wished he'd just shut up about his stupid obsession with Spike being after her. It was hard enough trying to ignore the small mean part of herself which whispered that if Buffy never came back, maybe someday Spike would notice her that way, without Dad forcing the subject.

She shook her head violently. No. She loved her sister, she told herself fiercely. Doing the spell would squish that small mean part of her dead, dead, dead.

Swearing softly to herself, Dawn kicked off the covers and got out of bed. She was still fully dressed. She got down on her knees and rooted around under the bed for her sneakers and the fanny pack full of emergency supplies she'd hidden there earlier, pulled them out, and opened her door very carefully. She'd taken the precaution of oiling the hinges back when they'd first moved in; you never knew when you might want to escape parental supervision.

She tiptoed into the living room. It was dark; Dad went to bed after the ten o'clock news. She sat down on the couch and began putting on her sneakers in the dark. Not too dark; the floodlights in the parking lot made pale rectangles out of the curtained windows. She stood up, her heart tripping faster again, and catfooted over to the front door. Her palm was sweating as she turned the doorknob, very, very carefully, and pulled the door open, biting her lip at the scrape of it dragging across the carpet nap. Down below, illumined by the sickly yellow parking lot lights, was the black bulk of the DeSoto, made even more ominous by the blanked-out windows. Closing the door behind her just as carefully, she started down the stairs.

Spike and Willow were waiting at the foot of the stairs, and judging from the number of cigarette butts littering the sidewalk, had been there for awhile. "Oi, Niblet, 'bout time," Spike grumbled, tossing his latest fag to the ground in a shower of orange sparks and grinding it out. "We were about to go in and liberate you."

"Sorry. I fell asleep. Let's go."

"Bad thought--we need a plan for if the Van Guys show up at the warehouse tonight," Willow said.

Spike chuckled nastily. "I don't think they will. I put the fear of yours truly in 'em on last night's patrol."

Willow looked aghast. "Spike, you didn't--"

They'd taken about five steps towards the car when her father's voice behind her said "Dawn, where do you think you're going?"

  
*****  


Hank Summers might not be accustomed to living with teenaged girls in the throes of an unsuitable crush, but he prided himself on the fact that he wasn't a complete idiot. He remembered all the trouble Joyce had had with Buffy sneaking out to wander around Sunnydale in the middle of the night--Lord knew why, since except for a couple of seedy downtown clubs the place practically rolled up its sidewalks at sundown. So now, standing on the landing and looking down on the escape in progress, he wasn't terribly surprised. Pissed off, but not surprised.

"...come on, Will, all I did was find a pay phone and call bleeding 911," said the voice Hank least wanted to hear at this moment, sounding somewhat aggrieved. "And then scarper when the ambulance showed up."

"You moved him with a head injury," Willow replied sternly. "That's not nice."

Spike looked affronted. "Look, it's hard enough giving up the evil thing, but if you expect me to be nice on top of it--"

Hank restrained a sneer. The sight of Dawn gazing adoringly at that bleached-blond poseur was enough to make anyone sick to his stomach. Spike might radiate the sort of superficial charisma that took in impressionable teens, but ten to one the British accent was fake, the coat was vinyl, the 'evil thing' was limited to dealing coke to pay for the plastic surgery because no one was born with cheekbones like that and he damn sure wasn't a vampire. "Dawn, where do you think you're going?"

The three of them stopped dead. "The complex laundry room," Dawn said, cool as a cucumber. "Spike brought your sweatsuit back."

The damn-sure-not-a-vampire nodded. "Yeh, I did. Ta ever so. We'll just nip out to the car and get it."

"We can even fold it for you when it's done," Willow put in with an eager nod.

Hank regarded them all evenly, arms folded. "You just do that. Dawn, you come back to bed."

Dawn looked at Willow, pleading in her eyes. "Don't you have some kind of forgetty spell or something?"

Willow grimaced and shook her head. "I'm afraid I've been concentrating on blow-things-uppy spells." She brightened. "I can put him to sleep, though." She took a breath.

"Wait," Dawn interrupted. "He'll hit his head. Dad, I'm really sorry, but we're going to have to knock you out. Spike, go up and catch him--"

"Whatever you say, Niblet," said a voice in his ear, and Hank jumped. Spike couldn't possibly have gotten up the stairs and past him so quickly, but there he was, lean and dangerous and lounging against the metal railing. "Any time, Red."

Willow looked up at him very apologetically. "Sorry, Mr. Summers, but this is a matter of life and death." She raised her hand and spoke a Word, and the world went black.

When he came to, he was lying on the couch. His head was perfectly clear, no dizziness or pain from where he must have been cold-cocked, but he couldn't move. After a second he realized that this was because his wrists and ankles had been bound up in duct tape. "We'd better go," he heard Willow saying. She sounded jittery. "It's a half-hour drive out to the factory, and we need to be there by two."

There was the harsh ripping sound of more tape pulling free from the roll. "Not his mouth! He needs to breathe!"

Dawn's voice. What the hell...? He wasn't stupid; he knew that she resented him. He could deal with normal teen-aged rebellions, the sneaking out at night, the arguments. Maybe not well, but he could deal. He'd dealt with Buffy through worse. But Buffy's violence had never been directed against her own family. His gut clenched with fear and anger.

"Nasty habit, that," Spike said. "He doesn't need to yell, Niblet. I'll leave his nose free."

"Well... OK. Just you be real sure you don't hurt him."

_OK? What have you done to my Dawnie, you rat bastard?_ If he kept his eyes closed maybe he'd learn something. Were they intending to rob the place? There really wasn't anything worth stealing here, though he supposed they could fence the television and the microwave for a few bucks. He managed to turn his head and squinted through nearly-closed eyelids. Dawn was sitting on the kitchen table, swinging her feet, while Willow stood at the foot of the couch and watched with a worried look while Spike ripped the last piece of tape free of the dispenser and finished tying up his ankles. He leaned over and inspected Hank with a smirk. "Looks like Daddikins is awake."

Hank gave up the pretense of unconsciousness and glared at his captor. "This is assault, damn it!"

Spike just grinned. He was obviously enjoying himself, even if the other two weren't. "I'm sorry, Dad," Dawn said. "But Willow's right. It's life and death. We'll be back by tomorrow morning, I hope, and... and I really hope you'll see why I had to do this."

He fought to keep his voice level. "Dawn. Sweetie. This is not some game. This is serious. This is a crime, Dawn. You've got to let me go."

His daughter looked down at him, worrying a lock of hair between her teeth, obviously torn. She shot an anxious glance over his head at Spike. The supposed vampire, still holding a mouth-sized swatch of tape in one hand, looked back at her and raised an inquiring eyebrow. It almost seemed that he was awaiting Dawn's say-so. Dawn's anguished look resolved into determination, and she nodded. Spike slapped the tape over Hank's mouth immediately, deftly avoiding Hank's attempt to bite his fingers.

Dawn hopped off the table and came over to the couch. She bent down and placed a hesitant peck on her father's forehead. "Bye, Dad." Then she was gone, following the others out the door and into the night. The moment the door closed behind her, Hank began to struggle against his bonds. He rolled off the couch, banging painfully into the coffee table. High overhead on the kitchen wall, the phone loomed like the Holy Grail. If he could get over there, stand up, knock the phone off the hook and tap out 911, he wouldn't have to talk--they'd send someone to investigate an off-hook phone. He began worming his way across the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

The Bronze wasn't too crowded on a Tuesday night. Standing on her toes in the doorway and craning her neck, Anya was able to survey almost the whole club. Neither Willow's red nor Spike's white-blond head stood out in the scattering of people milling about on the dance floor or congregating around the tables. She was about to say as much to Xander, but he'd caught sight of other familiar faces, and was already wending his way through the dancers to their table. "Hey!" Xander yelled over the noise of the other patrons. "Doug! Lenny!"

Doug and Lenny, along with a few other guys from Xander's crew at the construction company, were seated around one of the little circular tables, which was littered with the remains of an appetizer platter. The two of them looked up from their beers and waved back. "Hey," Doug greeted them as Xander wove his way through the crowd to his table, Anya following along in his wake. "What's up? Want a beer? We got a pitcher. You're not usually here this late on a work night." He gestured towards a vacant seat. "Take Joe's chair, he's trying to pick up some college chick at the bar."

"Thanks, bud, but we can't stay long, we're on a manhunt." Xander slid Joe's chair over for Anya and grabbed another for himself from a nearby table. "You know my friend Willow? The redhead? Has she been in here tonight?"

Doug frowned and exchanged looks with the others. "Haven't seen her, man. She's the cute little d--" Lenny tossed a warning shot of peanuts at him and he cut himself off before swallowing any more foot. "No. Hasn't been in."

Xander gave him the eye. "I believe the current in term is 'woman-loving woman', oh politically correct poster boy. How about a blonde Brit about so tall, black leather coat, really annoying?"

Lenny scratched his stubbly chin and leaned back in his seat. "You mean Spike? That pool-playing friend of yours?"

The description of Spike as a friend of his seemed to throw Xander for a loop. Anya couldn't remember having seen him look quite that disgruntled in awhile. "He's no damn friend of mine," he snapped. "Have you seen him or not?"

"Shit, Harris, bite a guy's head off, why don't you?" Lenny grumbled. "No, I haven't seen him. And I've been keeping an eye out. He bummed a cigarette off me last week and then ripped off the whole pack when I wasn't looking."

Xander sighed and shoved the hair off his forehead. "Sorry, Lenny, I'm on edge."

"It's important we find them," Anya said. "Family emergency." That was vague enough to cover anything, especially if you never made it clear which family the emergency was in. She pulled a pen and notepad out of her purse and wrote down a number. "If you see either of them, give us a beep, please. Here's my pager number."

Lenny shrugged. "Sure. Smack him one for me when you find him."

"We'll do that." Anya gave Lenny and Doug what she hoped was a sincerely grateful smile. Faking sincerity was difficult, but, she thought, worth the trouble, especially since she was counting on Xander's work friends to provide the bulk of really good gifts at their upcoming wedding. It wasn't as if Dawn or Tara or Willow had any income to speak of, and Giles was the world's worst shopper, and if Spike showed up for anything more than the free food and alcohol she would be mightily surprised. "Thank you both."

She got up and took Xander's arm, tugging him towards the doors. He slouched out to the parking lot behind her, hands shoved angrily into his pockets. He didn't say anything until they got into the car and the doors slammed. He sat gripping the wheel for a moment, then burst out, "Since when am I the Pulseless Wonder's keeper? If Lenny's gullible enough to leave anything in reach of that goddamn deadbeat vampire he deserves to get burned!"

Anya buckled her seatbelt. "Lenny doesn't know Spike's a vampire," she pointed out. "This is one of those things where you're mad at Spike because you don't want to be mad at what you're really mad at, isn't it?" That was as close as she wanted to come to direct criticism of Willow; that never went over well with Xander.

"No," Xander replied irritably, glancing over his shoulder and throwing the car into reverse. "It's not. I'm well and truly mad at Spike on his own merits. I'm just also mad at me for being sap enough to slack off on hating him."

"You can't help it. Men run in packs. It's a hunter-gatherer thing."

"Can we lay off the hyena metaphors?" He pulled out into traffic. "I guess we'll hit the Fish Tank next. Dammit, this is hopeless! They could be anywhere!"

"Not anywhere. We know they aren't in the places we've already looked," Anya said, stroking his arm. "Should we check back in with Tara and Giles?" The other two had remained in Giles' apartment to try working a location spell, but Anya had little expectation of them succeeding. If Willow were up to something wrong, she was more than capable of screening herself and her activities from the sort of magics Tara and Giles could muster.

Xander tossed the hair out of his eyes. He was incredibly sexy when he got that resolute, determined look. "Nah. Not till we've checked out every place we can think of. We've been to the library, and the Magic Box, and Spike's crypt, and Will's parents' house... when we find them I swear I'm gonna pound Spike's face in."

"If he's at the Fish Tank someone may have done it for you." In contrast to the trendy brew pubs which sprang up like mushrooms over by the UC Sunnydale campus, downtown Sunnydale had exactly three night spots worth checking:the Bronze, the Fish Tank, and Willie's, in descending order of seediness and demon-haunted atmosphere. The latter two were long shots; Anya couldn't imagine Willow going to either of them, and these days Spike only went to Willie's when he wanted to beat someone up, and to the Fish Tank when he wanted to get beaten up. Anya considered. "But that's safer than trying to pound Willow's face in," she said at last.

Xander faced her suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said. If you have to release your anger and assert your dominance in a display of physical violence, hitting Spike is a better idea than hitting Willow. Willow could damage you severely and Spike can't. Or we could have rough sex later. Or both. I don't mind."

He regarded her for a long bemused moment. "I see your 'I don't mind' and raise you an 'Ew.' If you're trying to turn me off the idea of pounding faces, you're succeeding. Doesn't this piss you off even a little?"

"Only because it makes you angry."

Xander didn't take that one any further, and remained quiet for the rest of the drive over to the Fish Tank, only the occasional furrowing of his brow providing evidence of his thoughts. Anya looked out the window and watched him out of the corner of her eye. The fact that Willow and Spike were probably doing a dangerous spell didn't bother her in itself. She didn't trust Spike around her money, but otherwise she was as indifferent to him as he was to her. Willow she put up with for Xander's sake, but that was all. If the two of them blew themselves up, Anya didn't think she'd be very sad about it.

But Willow was Xander's best friend, and Spike was, despite Xander's oft-professed loathing of vampires, his only current male acquaintance who both shared a few of his interests--though usually only to the point that they could argue about who was right for hours--and who was in on Xander's secret life as Assistant Slayer, First Class. Either of them getting blown up would upset Xander a great deal. And she didn't want another funeral. There had been too many of them lately. So if Willow and Spike were doing something that hurt Xander, they had to be stopped.

The Fish Tank and Willie's both proved to be busts; no one had seen Spike at either place for days, and as Anya suspected, no one at either place had ever seen Willow. They'd been cruising Sunnydale's remarkable selection of graveyards ever since. Xander kept checking his watch; it was almost three. He couldn't stay out much longer; he had to work tomorrow, and running heavy machinery on four hours' sleep was something Anya tried to avoid encouraging him to do. He'd be living on No-Doz for the next day as it was.

Her pager buzzed as they took another futile turn down Main, and Xander pulled over to a corner pay phone. She slipped coins into the slot and punched in Giles' number. "Hello? Giles?"

His voice on the other end of the line sounded tired, but he'd obviously gotten some news. "Yes. I just received a call from the police. Apparently Spike and Willow showed up at Mr. Summers' apartment shortly after midnight..."

A few minutes later she nodded. "All right. We'll meet you there." She hung up the phone and dashed back to the car. "Go to Hank Summers' place," she directed. "Spike and Willow were there, and took Dawn someplace a couple of hours ago. Giles wants to see if he remembers anything they said about where they were going."

  
*****  


For Dawn, getting into the DeSoto with its blacked-out windows was like stepping into another world, a tiny private universe smelling of old upholstery and stale cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey and the not-unpleasant earthy scent of vampire. She'd done it dozens of times over the course of the summer, before her Dad had showed up. She'd stayed with Willow's family while Social Services tried to contact her father, in Willow's old room, which had a convenient private door leading out onto their back porch. Dawn had invited Spike in, but he'd seldom taken advantage of the fact unless he needed patching up after a fight. Instead, once or twice a week, he'd appear out of nowhere and tap on the panes of the window, and she'd slip outside and into the big black gas-guzzling dinosaur. And they'd go places.

Spike adamantly refused to take her patrolling with him, but otherwise he was perfectly willing to take her anywhere--scavenging at the dump, or on one of his shoplifting excursions, or back to his crypt to watch bad late night movies on his snowy old television and make rude comments about them, or even once or twice to Willie's, where he let her have a sip of his blood-and-bourbon just to see what it was like (really gross). Now and again they'd run into demon trouble, because it was Sunnydale, after all, and she'd get a forcible reminder of just how savagely efficient a fighter he could be when the chip wasn't interfering. He was, in short, a horrible influence and Dawn loved every moment of it.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it after her father had arrived and taken her in. Of course school had started now, and that would have meant a curtailing their midnight jaunts anyway. But now, tearing out of the parking lot, it was almost like old times again. Dawn sat in the back seat and listened to Willow and Spike arguing over putting the Ani DiFranco she'd brought or the Butthole Surfers in the portable CD player (Willow claimed to draw the line at bands named after body parts one couldn't show in public) and reaching a devil's compromise on John Cougar Mellencamp. In a few moments they were roaring down the interstate at one in the morning, the headlights of oncoming cars growing, blazing into their eyes, dying away, Spike singing _I fight authority, authority always wins_ at the top of his undead lungs as the passing headlights turned his pale hair into a burnished silver halo. Dawn laid her head down on the windowsill. This moment was perfect. She never wanted it to end.

But the future kept rolling towards her an inexorable one second per second, and all too soon the highway gave way to surface streets and the DeSoto was lurching to a halt in the shadow of the old warehouse. Spike and Willow got out and stood there in the rank grass beside the car, staring up at the rotting hulk of the building. Dawn got out of the back seat and stood a little behind them, watching the tension build in the way they held themselves. She herself was beyond nervous, in some kind of state of lucid shock which allowed her to think and act and not deal with the fact that they were about to bring her sister back from the dead.

Spike was the first to move; he went round back and opened up the trunk, and he and Willow started pulling things out. Big things, a couple of hibachis, it looked like, and a bag of charcoal and some lighter fluid. "What happens if it... goes wrong?" Dawn said, picking up the charcoal. Fire King. Dad used Fire King charcoal for cookouts, back when she was a kid. Maybe Buffy would like that being what they used to bring her back... Her voice sounded harsh, older in her own ears. "If she comes back and she's..." She didn't want to say _Like Mom_ with Willow there. Spike hadn't actually seen the results of the spell he'd helped her get the ingredients for... nor had she. Hearing them had been more than enough.

Willow looked lost. Spike looked a million years old. "Then I kill my third Slayer," he said.

Willow closed her eyes and nodded. "And I make sure she won't be in any condition to bring back ever again."

Dawn's skin twitched all over, like a horse plagued with flies. "You couldn't--"

The vampire sighed. "Dawn, love, if I couldn't I wouldn't need to. Think about it." Spike picked up the hibachis and the two of them started off for the factory. It took a moment to penetrate. If Spike were able to kill Buffy, it would mean she weren't quite human. Dawn felt sick for a moment. She hugged the charcoal as if it were a lifeline and ran to catch up.

The factory and adjoining warehouse were deserted, though evidence of the Van Guys' stay remained in the shape of a radio and a cooler full of melted ice and beer bottles in one of the sheds. Broken glass and scraps of metal crunched softly under Dawn's sneakers, louder under the soles of Spike's Doc Martens, as they circumnavigated the building. Willow looked questioningly up at the route Spike and Xander had taken inside; Spike shook his head. "We're not dodging anyone, we can get in down here." The doors on the ground floor were locked, but there were plenty of broken windows, and knocking the last few scraps of glass out of one took only a few moments. Spike went in first and lifted the other two through after him.

Once on her feet again, Dawn looked around The interior of the warehouse was still much as Spike and Xander had described it several nights ago. She pulled a palm-sized flashlight out of her fanny pack and clicked it on, shining it around the cavernous space. Five sketchily painted symbols in red were still visible in the clear area in the middle of the floor, though drifts of greyish brown vampire dust partially obscured several of them. The chains which had held the captives lay in several tangled piles nearby, just as they'd fallen from the disintegrated vampires' limbs. Spike bent over and picked one set up, scrutinizing them with a tight-lipped, unreadable expression before tossing them aside. They hit the concrete with a loud clank.

Willow had set her duffle down on one of the sagging old tables and was pulling things out--a small brass censer on a chain, some packets of incense, a silver-handled knife, several quartz crystals, a small bowl... she was all business now, nerves subdued to the necessity of getting everything just right. "Dawn, take the censer and light some of this in it." She handed Dawn a couple of small charcoal briquets and a packet of incense. "Don't put the incense on yet, I just want to get the coals going. Spike, where's your lighter?"

The vampire handed it over silently. It wasn't one of the throwaway plastic Bics Dawn was used to seeing; it was big and heavy and made out of some silvery metal... _ probably silver, duh_. After a moment of fumbling with the unfamiliar striker, Dawn flicked it on and held the little flame to the charcoal until a red glowing rim of ember spread around the edge. She handed it back and Spike went over to the half-melted mess of candles on the table on the other side of the room and began lighting them one by one. The growing light did little to dispel the room's overall gloom.

Willow took out a sheet of paper on which several complicated symbols were sketched. She studied it for several minutes, comparing them to the ones on the floor. Coming to a decision at last, she walked over to one of the half-completed symbols on the floor. "We'll use this one." She began scraping at one of the other symbols with the toe of her shoe, and grimaced when this made no impression on the paint. "We'll have to get rid of these. They'll mess it up. Is there any more paint lying around?"

After several minutes of searching they discovered the paint bucket, and Dawn set to work painting over the symbols which Willow pointed out as unnecessary. Willow got out a large piece of crumbly, reddish chalky stuff and began marking off a large circle around the remaining symbol, pausing to draw complicated little sigils every few feet. "Spike, set one of those hibachis up to the north and one to the south of the circle."

It took at least half an hour to set up the ritual circle, and when everything was ready, Willow got to her feet and wiped her hands on her jeans nervously. She pulled a thick sheaf of printouts out of the duffle and began passing them out. "The original ritual was written to be performed by way more people than we've got. I've made a lot of changes." Willow passed each of the other two a sheet of paper. "Here's your parts. Uh... Dawnie, give Spike the one in the large type. This one's yours. It's a long ritual, at least three hours, and once we start we can't stop. Also, Vespasian and his people will be arriving in the morning, and us still being here when they get here would be bad. So be ready to suck it up if you get tired."

Dawn studied her lines in the candlelight, then glanced over at Willow. "When do I have to get... get cut?"

Willow held up the silver knife and tested the blade on her thumb. "To start with... right now." She picked up the shallow bowl. "I need enough to complete the symbol."

For a moment, standing there, Willow's familiar features were replaced by Doc's. Dawn felt lightheaded for a moment, and she took one lurching step back, grabbing the edge of the nearest table. "I--"

"Dawn..." Spike said quietly. "It's not too late to stop this."

Spike almost never used her real name. Stupid vampire could hear how fast her heart was beating. Dawn swallowed. "No," she got out, thrusting her arm out towards Willow. She could still see the long, thin white scar from where she'd inexpertly sliced her own wrist last winter. "Do it."

"We have prepared a holy place in the darkness, and we have anointed it with oil..."

Dawn tipped the small vial and let three precise drops of almond oil fall on the center of the symbol, and walked back to her station on the easternmost edge of the circle. Her palms ached under the neat gauze bandage; Willow had had to make several cuts to get enough blood to complete the complex swirling pattern. Her legs were tired, too. It felt as if they'd been doing this for hours. They had been doing it for hours. There'd been the invocation of the Powers, there'd been the consecration of every item involved in the ritual, there'd been the careful placing of the quartz crystals at the nodes where the sigils were drawn around the edge of the circle...

Willow paced its circumference slowly while swinging the censer. The smell of incense was heavy in the air. Spike was standing at the westernmost point of the circle, holding the Orb of Thessula cupped in one hand. The braziers smoked sullenly to either side. Willow's chant continued. "We have been granted the blood of the living, and we have summoned the living dead..."

Shaking smoking censer, Willow left the edge of the circle and began spiraling in counterclockwise towards the center. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "As it was written, they shall prepare the way and the very Gates of Death shall open..."

Dawn felt it through the soles of her feet, a deep subterranean rumble which swelled and intensified with every heartbeat. The original line had been 'the gates of Hell'. Willow had changed it, but that line had still troubled her. Angel had fallen through the Hellmouth. He'd never said what it had been like there, but he'd been crazy for weeks after coming back.

There was no chance that Buffy was really in there. She wasn't sure where Buffy was, or if she was anywhere at all, but she knew it couldn't be there. Their family had never been religious, and she wasn't even sure which church, if any, either of her parents had ever belonged to. Still, the whole picture that she'd pieced together from things Buffy and Angel had dropped about Whistler and the Oracles and the Powers That Be didn't sound like the stuff you always heard about what God and Heaven were like. The Oracles had sounded like total snots, for one thing, and the Powers That Be sure didn't care about the falling of a sparrow. They were only interested in the big picture, the balance between good and evil, and tough beans to anyone that got squashed in adjusting the balance.

"...that which is above shall rejoice; for that which was below shall arise. And the world shall know the Slayer; and the Slayer shall know the world." Willow was now standing directly in front of Spike. "One is without breath..."

"Yet I live," Spike responded tersely. He sounded funny, and Dawn realized that his accent had changed slightly, lost the working-class inflection.

"One is without time..."

"Yet I live."

"One is without soul..."

"Yet I live."

"One is without sun..."

"Yet I live."

"One is dead..."

"Yet I live."

Spike and Dawn both advanced to the center of the circle, meeting Willow there at the end of her spiral path. Spike held the Orb out over the symbol. "Animam meam dono pro beneficio amicae carae, et ille sacrificum est."

Dawn pulled off the bandage from her palm, and Willow extended the silver knife, its blade stained rust with the earlier bloodletting. She couldn't restrain a whimper when the blade bit into her palm again, lengthening and deepening the cut. "Sanguinem meum dono pro beneficio amicae sororis, et ille sacrificum est." She reached out and took Spike's hand, covering the glowing Orb with her bloody palm, and squeezed, hard. Rivulets of crimson dripped between their clenched fingers and spattered downwards upon the symbol like rain upon parched ground. Willow threw her arms up and her head back, bloody knife rending the air, her eyes as dark as the sky outside. Her voice rang out,

"Et ille qui est mortuus vivet  
Dum vita et mors non duas res  
Sed una est...in tenebris lux!  
Buffy Anne Summers, Surge! Surge! Surge!"  


Dawn felt the Orb shatter in their dual grasp, fragmenting into a rain of impossibly fine shards, each lurid with her blood, each glowing with its own internal light. The blood met the cloud of crystalline motes and the shaking of the earth intensified again. The ground buckled beneath them. Dawn staggered. Out of nowhere a howling wind sprang up, sucking the remains of the Orb and the blood droplets into a raging whirlwind. All three of them drew back involuntarily, barely able to keep their feet against the pitching and yawing of the ground. The dust of the Orb and the blood swirled together, red and silver, in a whirlwind around the symbol, rising, falling, wheeling about some invisible centerpoint, plunging into nothingness at its heart.

For a long moment nothing happened. Dawn stood there trembling. Had it worked? Had they messed something up?

And then she heard Spike scream.

  
*****  


A maelstrom of blood and moonlight revolved overhead, centered on a pearl of incandescent light. An uncanny wind whipped their hair, and aftershocks jolted through the old building. Willow was still caught up in the rhythm of the spell when the vampire's scream broke her concentration. She tore her eyes away from the swirling nexus of magical energy in time to see Spike let go Dawn's hand and collapse to the blood-splattered concrete, his face drawn in a rictus of agony. Dawn grabbed for him as he fell, but he was too heavy for her and she could only break his fall a little. She clutched her hand to her chest and stared from him to her bleeding palm, then turned on Willow. "What's happening to him?"

Willow fought down panic. Events were slipping away from her. "I don't know!" That wasn't quite true--it was pretty obviously a repeat of whatever had gone wrong back in the crypt, but worse. This was a completely different spell. It didn't make sense. Her eyes were drawn back to the vortex; the brilliant sphere in its heart was the size of a baseball now. The spell was working--or was it? Her research on the original spell had led her to believe that the Raising would be almost instantaneous, not drawn out in slow motion like this. She'd made so many changes, and it wasn't as if she could have tested them... "It shouldn't be doing this!"

Dawn dropped to her knees by the vampire's side, her bloody hand hovering fearfully over his shoulder. Spike was lying in the middle of the (now somewhat smeared) symbol, with his knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them, curled into a tight, shivering ball. "Spike. Spike! Can you hear me?"

He twitched a little at the sound of her voice, but his only answer was a strangled snarl. Dawn looked up at Willow. "We've got to stop, it's hurting him!"

White-faced, Willow stooped and picked up the scattered pages of the spell that Dawn and Spike had dropped, and began riffling through them. Her greatest successes in magic had always been driven by emotion, not reason, but there was no place for impulse here. She had to think. What had she missed? "There has to be some connection," she muttered, thinking out loud. "Both spells went wrong in the same way..."

Dawn laid her hand tentatively on Spike's shoulder and his shivering abated slightly. "Both spells?" she asked, but Willow ignored the question.

"OK, the obvious--both spells involve Spike's soul. But one was to summon it, and one was to dismiss it. Opposite effects, right? And neither one should have affected him at all, since the soul... wasn't...really... his... Oh, no." Willow scrabbled through the pages of the spell again, checking, double-checking, her heart sinking.

"Soul?" Dawn interrupted, her voice rising to a shriek. "What soul? What are you talking about? Was that what that glowy thing was? You said all we needed was some of my blood!"

"Um. That was all we needed from you." Willow rested the pages on her knees, staring at the printouts, two voices ringing in her ears--Spike, asking _Is there any law says it has to be your soul?_ Her old high school computer science teacher, Jenny Calendar, saying _Remember, always define your variables._ "I know what the problem is." She pointed to the final lines of the spell. "It just says 'I give my soul.' And it's, like, with vampires, we always say 'soulless' but really, the demon takes the place of the human soul. With the summoning spell, I'll bet it latched onto the demon first because it was closer, but I'd defined the variables better so it stopped when it found the right one and slurped it up into the Orb. But this spell, it's all about substitutions--your blood is Buffy's blood, so Buffy's death is your death. So Spike's soul is, well, his old one, but also--"

"The demon."

"Yeah. That's pretty much it." Willow avoided Dawn's eyes and wondered if she looked as miserable as she felt. "The spell's pulling Spike's demon out of his body."

Dawn's eyes went wide with horror. "That will kill him!"

"Well... uh... yeah. Since the demon's the only thing keeping him from being a corpse, if it gets pulled out all the way he's probably going to go all dusty on us."

"Then make it stop!" Dawn yelled, balling both hands into fists.

"_No_."

The word was no more than a hoarse growl. Spike had uncoiled himself, and was now pushing himself up off the pavement, holding himself rigid against the shudders which still wracked his body. "_No_. If it's working, you bloody well keep it working!" He lifted his head, slowly and painfully, and Willow's stomach crawled a bit as the planes of his face finished shifting and settling. The candlelight glittered in his golden eyes and threw the ridged brow and permanent snarl of his vampire countenance into horrific relief. Willow wasn't even sure he realized he'd slipped into game face, though it made sense; that would give the demon a surer hold on the flesh it inhabited. Dawn didn't seem to notice either; she just kept holding on to his shoulder. Spike grabbed her arm and leaned into her shoulder for support, baring his fangs in a grimace of pain. After a moment he drew breath enough to continue, "You get her back. That's what we came for, to get her back or to make damned sure no one else can. You keep--aaahh!" He doubled over again.

The incandescent sphere was swelling overhead now, a miniature sun. Willow hesitated. "Look, if we can get her through I think it'll stop. It did get the one soul, after all, so that should satisfy the conditions of the spell. But I don't know how long it'll take! It should've happened much faster than this, and if it goes on too long--"

Spike snarled up at her, "You think I didn't mean it when I said I'd give my soul for her? Either of 'em! Finish the bloody spell already!"

Dawn whimpered deep down in her throat. Willow closed her eyes, lifted her arms, and began the chant once more.

  
*****  


There was a moment Spike had witnessed hundreds of times. Sometimes it went flashing by in an eyeblink, sometimes it stretched itself out long enough for the shocked victim to look down, to realize that the moment had come and that it was too late to avoid it. It was the moment when one of a few select kinds of physical damage--fire, a wooden stake penetrating the heart, the removal of the head from the body--irreparably severed the connection between human body and demon soul. When the moment was over, a vampire dissolved into ash.

None of those things had happened to him, but he was caught in that moment nonetheless, infinitely prolonged. The agonizing, undefinable pull he'd felt during Willow's earlier spell was magnified a hundredfold. He was being torn ever so slowly in two, and somehow he had to hold on to himself.

_Concentrate. On the hard concrete floor. On the gritty layer of dust under his hand, on the smell of Dawn's congealing blood. Here. Now._

He needed the demon. He'd known that from the first night, in the moment in which his first human prey ceased to be 'the woman' and became simply food. He remembered staring down at the ragged crimson mess he'd made of her neck in his eagerness, expecting to feel guilt and horror and anguish, and instead feeling... pleased. And still hungry. In the flush of his new power he'd challenged Angelus for his own kill, and the older vampire had clouted him in the head hard enough to send him spinning across the alley and smash into the wall opposite. He should have been terrified. He should have backed down and begged pardon, crawled away and nursed his humiliation helplessly, in private, as he had all his life. Instead he surged to his feet with a roar and launched himself at Angelus' back--and his grand-sire turned around, smashed him methodically into jelly and left him lying there until Drusilla came flitting by just before sunrise and carried him back to the lair. Angelus, satisfied he'd learned his lesson, ignored him--and never really understood why, the whole time, the newly-risen William had been laughing.

_Here. Now. Willow's voice rising and falling, certain as the tide. Taste of his own blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek falling._

That was the real gift the demon had given him: not immortality, nor strength, nor supernatural keenness of sense, but rage. Pure, killing rage that swept fear aside and lent sinew to every other passion he owned. It wasn't true that he had never feared anything again after that night--he'd feared plenty. But the fear didn't matter any longer. He was transformed. The demon fit into the hollow place within him where the guilt and horror and anguish should have been--good riddance to them--as if he'd been born to it. So seamless was the meld that it was easy to make himself believe that the demon was all he was, and look back with scathing contempt, when he cared to look back at all, upon the mediocre life and times of William the Bloody Awful Poet. He needed the demon to be Spike.

_Light swelling overhead, so bright it hurt even through eyelids shut tight. Here. Now. Not enough. The world was fading out around him like a photograph left too long in the sun._

He was slipping out of his own grasp, catching desperately at fraying scraps of memory--_Standing on the Slayer's front lawn, ducking his head to hide the grin of embarrassment. "I want to help save the world." Sitting in the Slayer's kitchen, pouring out his heartbreak about Dru's desertion to Joyce Summers over hot cocoa_\--and miraculously finding purchase.

_Steeling himself to crawl to his mortal enemies rather than let himself starve to death after the chip had gone in. Finding excuses to hang around Sunnydale and run into said mortal enemies. The horrible realization that his obsession with killing the Slayer had mutated into something very different. Storming up to her doorstep, shotgun in hand, determined to end the whole farce. Ending up trying to comfort her instead._

The spell didn't pull at that part of him. Had his humanity been only a fading collection of century-old memories, the demon might have been ripped out entire by now, clawing uselessly at a mooring of sand. But the line between William and Spike had always been dangerously fuzzy. He held onto every scrap of weak, aberrant, human behavior he could muster, held on for dear unlife. There wasn't any stake in his heart and there wasn't any fire charring his flesh and his head was still on his shoulders and buggered if he was just going to let go.

_Watching 'Passions' with Joyce in the crypt. Helping Dawn steal Giles' journal. Playing pool with Xander. Telling Dawn stories about his past while she listened with horrified relish. Siding with Buffy against Dru after his disastrous attempt at revealing his feelings. The queer hitch in his throat when he finally heard, third-hand, of Joyce's death. Helping Dawn with the ill-fated attempt to resurrect her. Hanging in chains from Glory's penthouse ceiling. The wash of shame when he realized that Buffy knew about the robot. Hiding Dawn in the sewers. Stealing the van. Grabbing the sword. Finally reinvited into Buffy's house, looking up at her as she ascended the staircase. "I know I'm a monster." _

The world sharpened around him again, sound and scent and vision coming back into focus. He needed the demon to be Spike. He was beginning to realize how much he needed William to be Spike, too. Dru, bless her mad murderous heart, had been right about one thing. You were born to slash, and bash, and oh! bleed like beautiful poetry...

He'd stood up to a bloody goddess once. She'd creamed him, of course, just as Angelus had, but he'd taken everything Glory could dish out and then some, and still scraped up the stones to force his beaten, bloody self to stand up when those elevator doors opened, prepared to do it all over again. Had he been all William, he would have been blubbing everything he knew after three minutes of Glory's idea of fun and games. Had he been all demon, he wouldn't have been in those chains in the first place. The one couldn't, the other wouldn't, fight some fights.

Spike wasn't one or the other. He was both at once, and right now it was inconceivable that Spike do anything _but_ fight.


	8. Chapter 8

Willow's voice was lost in the explosion of light which followed her words, light so intense it was palpable. It knocked her stumbling back against the nearest table. She felt the sharp stab of hot wax burning her palms as she grabbed wildly for purchase amidst the candles. The smell of burning cloth assaulted her nose and she croaked out a spell of quenching; immediately all the candles went out. Afterimages writhed through her field of vision against the darkness, green and scarlet blobs like battling lava lamps, and her ears ached though there'd been no sound. Someone was growling, very softly.

"Willow?" Dawn moaned. "It's still there."

Willow squinted. The blobs weren't all afterimages. The vortex was still spinning slowly in place, shot through with ugly pulsing knots of power. "Ignite," she whispered. A few candles flickered back to life.

Spike was still coiled up in the middle of the circle. The growling noise was coming from him. Every now and again he jerked as if fighting some invisible battle. Dawn was crouched over him protectively, her eyes huge in her pale, strained face.

In the aftermath of the light-burst there was a third figure lying there, a small, slim body in a crumpled heap on the concrete, thin limbs splayed and fair hair tumbling over her face. Willow's breath stopped and she lurched forward.

"Buffy!" Dawn cried, breaking into tears in earnest. She lunged over to her sister, grabbing her shoulder before Willow could utter a word of caution. "Buffy! Wake up!"

Buffy Summers stirred. Her head whipped up and she looked from one side to the other, taking in everything at once. In her eyes there was only confusion, pain, and anger.

"Buffy... it's me," Dawn said.

Buffy's feral gaze fixed upon her sister, and she moved like quicksilver, grabbing Dawn's shoulders in both hands with painful force. She stared into her sister's eyes for a long moment. Her brows knit and her lips parted slightly. She lifted one hand to trace the contours of Dawn's face. Was there a spark of recognition in her eyes? Heedless of her nudity she rose to her feet and stalked over to Willow, repeating the inspection, then returned to the circle and crouched down beside Spike. She sat back on her heels, studying him with apparent puzzlement. Even accounting for the effect of the candlelight he looked ghastly. Buffy reached out to touch him, but drew back and cocked her head up at Willow, her attitude saying more plainly than words _What's wrong with him?_

Oh, God. Was this just the post-resurrection confusion that Wesley had mentioned, or was something more serious wrong? Willow searched the blank, wild eyes for any trace of her friend. "Buffy," Willow said. "Do you know where you are? Do you remember Dawn, or me?" She reached out and Buffy snarled and flinched away from her hand. "Look, we brought a blanket. It's one of your old ones. Can you put on the nice blanket?"

Buffy just hunkered down, her eyes darting suspiciously from one to the other of the three of them. Willow tossed the blanket to the floor a few feet away from her and stepped back. After a moment Buffy's hand shot out and grabbed it. She turned the blanket over and over in her hands for a moment, looking perplexed, then shook it out clumsily and tried to drag the half-folded result over Spike. "Oh, god, Buffy, that won't help!" Dawn said, her voice half a sob. She pointed up at the vortex. "Willow, why hasn't that thing gone away? Buffy's back!" Dawn's fingers were digging into Spike's shoulder hard enough to have left bruises on a living body, and she sounded as if she were teetering on the edge of hysteria.

"I'm getting really tired of I don't know, but I don't know!" Willow took a deep breath and shoved her hair off her face. "I'm going to try and close it."

She didn't know what else to try, so she began a standard spell of dismissal, throwing all her waning resources into it. The vortex began to twist and wobble, throwing off fat crimson arcs of energy, and Spike howled. Buffy gave vent to an angry wail in response and clawed at the air. "STOP!" Dawn screamed. "You're making it worse!"

There was a crash from the window they'd entered by, and a shower of fresh glass hit the warehouse floor. Both of them whirled to face it, hearts in their mouths; Willow let go the printout of the spell and the pages scattered in the wind of the vortex. Headlights blazed through the opening, a pair of tall, looming figures backlit in their glare. At the sight of the intruders Willow's face twisted in a snarl almost as horrific as Spike's and she drew back a hand to strike; here was something safe to vent her fear and frustration on--

"Willow!"

"Giles!" she squeaked. The swiftly aborted spell fizzled around her shoulders in a shower of burning poison-green sparks. Willow staggered under the weight of the unwrought magic as the looming figures broke into the feeble candlelight and revealed themselves as Giles and Xander, and behind them Tara and Anya. Tara's eyes were huge as she took in the circle, the sigils about its perimeter, the glowing braziers, but mostly the tableau of Dawn and Spike and Buffy beneath the whirling red and silver vortex.

Tara dove to her knees and began grabbing the scattered pages of spell responses, reading through them as fast as she could. The look in her lover's eyes when she looked up was one of such horror and reproach that Willow almost broke into tears then and there. Half a dozen things flashed into her head, but the only one which made it out of her mouth was "I can explain!"

  
*****  


Everyone was yelling. Dawn wished heartily that they'd stop. Blood loss and lack of sleep were beginning to get to her, and her head was spinning.

"This isn't Jenny's spell," Giles snapped. "Not even close. What is going on here?" He looked down at the three figures in the circle. "Oh, dear lord."

Tara sounded as if someone had kicked all the air out of her. "Oh, Willow, how c-could..."

"To save Buffy, that's how!" Willow shouted, suddenly furious. Giles took a step forward, equally furious. "That's what we do, save people, right?"

Giles' voice might have been carved from ice. "After all you've seen of evil in the last five years, of human folly in the pursuit of power--"

"SHUT UP! All of you, just SHUT UP!" Dawn scrambled to her feet, radiating fury. "I don't care how right or wrong it was to get her back, she's HERE! Deal with it!" She stabbed an index finger at Spike. "And Spike's still in trouble, so DO SOMETHING!"

Tara was still shuffling through the pages of the spell, frowning. After a moment she closed her eyes and swallowed hard. "Willow. What did you use for the sacrifice?"

Willow's expression said that she wanted to argue, to explain, to justify herself... but she didn't. "Dawn's blood. Spike's soul. I amped up the correspondences so they'd add up to one life, and tied it all back to Buffy's death," she said. "I kind of didn't debug the soul part enough. It's trying to take the demon along with his original soul."

Tara frowned. "Buffy's back. His original soul must have been enough for the spell to work. Once she returned to this plane of existence, the spell ought to have resolved." She glanced up at the vortex. "But it hasn't. There's got to be another connection. If it's not the soul..." Her expression became, if possible, even more horrified. "Um... Dawnie... did you ever... uh... let Spike... uh... you know?"

"'You know' WHAT?" Dawn yelled. "Why doesn't anyone ever say what they mean around me?"

"Drink from you," Tara mumbled, flushing.

"NO! Ew! You people are disgusting!"

"There's got to be some other connection between him and the sacrifice," Giles said, in the sort of infinitely reasonable tone which was one step away from snapping completely. "Disgusting it may be, but the commonest method of binding a vampire and a human via the blood is for the vampire to drink from them."

"Well, think of an uncommon method, 'cause Spike's never laid a fang on me," Dawn snapped. She sat down again, hard and abruptly. She felt woozy, almost as badly as she'd felt up on the tower... The others were arguing, and Buffy, beside her, was beginning to fret and keen in distress. They shouldn't have brought her back. Tara was right. Buffy was all wrong and Spike was dying and Dawn felt like breaking down and bawling, but that would take too much energy. Her palm was aching like crazy and she'd gotten blood all over the shoulder of Spike's T-shirt. That was OK, it was black, it wouldn't stain... was that why so many vampires had a thing for black clothing? She'd have to ask Spike when he woke up... if he... God but her hand hurt. The knife had gotten dull towards the end, silver was a sucky metal for holding an edge. Not like... not like...

"The knife!"

"What knife?" Willow seized on her words with the alacrity of  
desperation. "The one we used in the ritual?"

"No," Dawn said. "Doc's knife." Why didn't they get it? Was she going to have to explain everything? "On the tower," she said, putting each word into place with laborious patience. "He stabbed Spike. And then he cut me. With the same knife. With Spike's blood on it."

She hoped, as she passed out, that the adults could figure out the rest of it on their own for once.

  
*****  


"Look, this is getting ridiculous." Hank Summers was scrunched in between Giles and Tara in the back seat. His reflection in the rear view mirror was strained, and his voice had the sound of someone pushing the limits of his ability to cope. "If you people are sure this is the factory they were talking about, we should tell the police."

"I assure you, Mr. Summers, there's no need for that at this stage," Giles said. "The last thing Dawn needs is the trauma of dealing with the Sunnydale police force."

Xander snorted softly. "Speaking as someone whose family has been dealing with Sunnydale's finest for a good twenty years, I second that."

There was a rumble, and the earth shook as Xander took the corner onto the weed-grown warehouse drive a little faster than he should have. The car jounced as the wheels scraped the curb. Xander forced himself to slow down. It wouldn't help matters if he ran off the road and punctured a tire on the jagged scrap in the factory yard. "Should've known they'd come back here," he muttered. "It's like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn."

He was still pissed off with nowhere to go. Despite his conviction that the whole thing was the vampire's fault, he had to admit that Hank Summers' description of the 'attack' on him sounded a lot more like Spike going off half-cocked and dragging Dawn and Willow along for the ride than like deliberate villainy. _I guess we didn't skip the insane-plan stage after all._ And maybe, just maybe, it wasn't only Spike going off half-cocked. Anya had a point: Willow was powerful enough these days that it was hard to imagine anyone forcing her to do anything she didn't want to do.

It was impossible for him to get as mad at Willow as he wanted to be mad at someone.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Mr. Summers muttered. "That Spike guy needs professional help. You do realize he's convinced Dawn that he's Dracula or something?"

"Oh, no, Dawn knows he's not Dracula," Anya assured him.

Hank did not seem appeased. "I'm sure she realizes it's a con deep down. She's a smart girl. She's just getting a hell of a kick out of pretending he is, and your friend Willow seems to be buying it too. He's taking it awfully damned seriously himself. That was real blood he was drinking the other day--I know, I bought the stuff for Dawn when I thought it was for her biology class. He's not stable. He could lose it any minute and--"

Giles interrupted him. "Yes, well, the real blood would follow from his being a real vampire. Under most circumstances I prefer to keep our association with the supernatural clandestine, but frankly, Mr. Summers, we haven't the time to pander to your craving for normalcy. Spike is a vampire, Willow is a witch, Buffy was the Slayer. Do please attempt to deal with it, or have the grace to shut up while the rest of us do."

And the Watcher gets testy, Xander thought. Hank Summers looked cowed for a moment. "I just want my daughter back safely," Hank said after a moment.

"As do we all," Giles said, more kindly. "I don't think you need to worry about Spike hurting Dawn," he added. "Though that may be all one doesn't have to worry about in connection with Spike. He truly is fond of her."

The Corvair's headlights revealed the DeSoto parked up ahead as they approached the warehouse, and Xander pulled in beside the larger car. Another tremor shook the ground as everyone began piling out, and off in the distance something crashed to the ground. Giles put a restraining hand on Hank Summers' shoulder before he could follow them. "It's best you remain here. There are other parties who intend to use this place for their own purposes later today, and they may show up to prepare at any moment. Keep watch." There was no expectation in his tone that he'd be disobeyed. "If you see anyone else coming, let us know immediately. If one of us doesn't return within half an hour, leave and call the police." He handed Hank a cross. "If a stranger does approach, for God's sake don't hesitate to use this, no matter how silly you think it makes you look. Give him your keys, Xander."

Xander did so, somewhat reluctantly, and Hank took them and the cross (despite Giles' advice, Xander noticed that he tucked it down on the seat beside him) and got in behind the wheel. They left him peering out uneasily into the darkness of the fields while the rest of them headed for the warehouse. Faint light was visible through the windows, and a little reconnaissance quickly disclosed the route that the three renegades had taken to get inside. The four of them peered in through the missing panes of glass, but there was too much clutter of old machinery and tables between them and the center of the warehouse to see anything except the glow of the candles and occasional flares of red or white light. Tara shivered.

"It feels bad," she whispered. "Really bad. Something twisted. Something stuck..."

"We'd better unstick it, then," Xander said. He shrugged out of his flannel overshirt, wrapped it around one hand, and bashed the last scraps of glass out of the window frame. He flung a leg over the windowsill. "Let's go."

A huge flashing vortex thingy pulsed overhead in the center of the warehouse. Xander had expected that--there was always a huge flashing vortex thingy; as far as he could tell it was some sort of requirement down at Wizards, Witches, Conjurers and Diviners Local 106. An eldritch figure limned in green flame stood in the middle of a sinister-looking array of magical paraphernalia. It spun to face them as they burst into the center of the warehouse, lightning clutched threateningly in one upraised hand.

"Willow!" Giles shouted.

"Giles!" the eldritch figure yipped back, and all of a sudden it was Willow, and the smoking braziers were Mr. Rosenberg's back yard hibachis, and everything was suddenly a lot less impressive-looking than it had been a moment ago. Far from appearing a confident practitioner of the dark arts, Willow looked about three steps further down the road to Panicsville than Hank Summers had been. Dawn was kneeling in the in the middle of the floor beside Spike, who was vamped out and having some kind of fit. Buffy crouched on the other side of the vampire--

For a moment Xander's brain froze up, taking the rest of his body with it. _Buffy?_

_BUFFY!_

_ NAKED Buffy! Look somewhere else!_

Giles, focused on Willow and the details of the spell, hadn't noticed Buffy's deshabille yet. Maybe he hadn't dared allow himself to notice Buffy, not really. Tara spared Buffy a glance, but she had other fish to fry. They plunged into a heated argument with Willow almost immediately. Xander didn't hear a word of it. Buffy. Real live Buffy. Death did not become her; Xander realized with an unhappy pang that she looked exactly as soul-weary and exhausted as she had that night last spring, her eyes shadowed and her face too thin. What the hell had they done to get her back like this?

It would have been a lot easier to bust in and shower righteous wrath on the perps if Willow hadn't been doing the quivery lower lip thing, or if Spike had been, well, conscious. Shaking himself back to life, Xander unwrapped his shirt from his hand, snapped it a couple of times to make sure there were no shards of glass on it, and held it out in Buffy's general direction while trying to keep his eyes averted. His eyes didn't want to cooperate. "Buffy, you wanna, um, put this on?" _I can't believe I'm saying that_.

Buffy cocked her head and frowned at him. Her expression reminded him of the look that a smart dog got when it knew you were asking it to do something and it couldn't figure out what. She reached out and touched the shirt tentatively, then drew her hand back. _This is bad. This is oh, so bad_. He tried to keep his voice calm and gentle. "Buffy...can you talk? Can you understand what I'm saying if you can't talk?"

Buffy's mouth worked for a moment and she looked up at him with big uncomprehending eyes. Frustration grew in her gaze.

Anya took the shirt and studied Buffy critically. "Here, Buffy. Please put on this shirt. It's extremely unflattering, but that's a good thing right now." She took one of Buffy's hands and tried to guide it into a shirt sleeve. There were scuffling noises. "Xander, help me."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Ahn." I_ can't believe I just said that, either_.

It took a lot of coaxing and pleading, but Anya finally got Buffy into the shirt, by which time Dawn had stood up to join the shouting match. Buffy kept looking at them and making little worried whimpery noises. "It's OK, Buff," Xander said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "It's OK." It wasn't anything of the sort. Was this really Buffy at all, and not some weird clone or changeling or zombie? "We're going to get you home and..." And what? And home? What home? Hank Summers' apartment? _No effing way_. Giles' place, maybe; it was the most familiar.

Possibly-Buffy, swimming in the oversized shirt, looked down herself and examined the tips of her fingers coming out the sleeves curiously. She tugged on Xander's hand sharply and pointed at Spike. "What, you want us to move him? I dunno if that's a good idea, Buff..."

Buffy's eyes flashed, and for a moment she was completely herself again, radiating determination. She looked as if she were about to get more insistent, but at that moment Dawn, who'd stood up for the shouting match, collapsed. Buffy's eyes went wider and confusion flooded back in. She gave a little cry of alarm. The shouting match abruptly ceased.

"Get her off the floor," Giles said.

Two down, one to go, Xander thought sourly as he took Dawn's ankles and Giles lifted her shoulders. The two of them picked her up off the concrete and carried her over to one of the tables. Buffy came after them, dragging the blanket. She held it out mutely, and after a moment Giles took it from her and tucked it around Dawn's shoulders. He could scarcely bring himself to look at her, and Xander had a feeling that it had little to do with Buffy's state of undress. Seeing Buffy like this was killing him.

"She needs orange juice," Willow gasped. "Or a cookie or something, that's what they give you when you donate blood, low blood sugar, I don't think we brought any orange juice--I have a Kit Kat bar--oh, everything's gone wrong!" She dropped to her knees beside Tara, her eyes pleading.

Tara met her gaze sternly. No problem with righteous wrath for her, apparently, but she seemed to come to a decision to stick to the business at hand, for her voice, when she spoke, was neutral and unaccusing. "So the spell was supposed to amplify the connection between Dawn's blood and Buffy's, but it picked up on this other connection between Spike and Dawn, too."

Willow nodded. "Right. The blood thing was supposed to be a closed Dawn-Buffy feedback loop." She turned one of the printout pages over, pulled a pencil stub out of her pocket and began sketching a diagram.
    
    
    Dawn = Buffy

She frowned at it thoughtfully. "With Spike in the mix, it's not closed. He's kind of a... leak, or a short-circuit, bleeding energy out of the spell." She added a few more lines and held out the new version for everyone's inspection.
    
    
    Dawn = Buffy
    
    \
    
    Spike

Tara nodded. "So the spell can't resolve. We have to get him out of the loop."

Xander folded his arms and looked over at Spike. The vampire's eyes were open now, just a slit, and there was something weird about them--after a moment Xander realized that they were flickering blue. He'd seen Spike's eyes go yellow and demony plenty of times when he was in human shape, but this was the first time he could remember seeing the opposite happen. "Could we just move him out of range?"

"I don't think it matters how close he is," Willow replied, nibbling on her pencil. "Taking him farther away may just speed things up. I tried a dismissal spell, but that made the pull worse." She glared at her notes. "Rats, rats, rats! Everything I can think of for getting him out of the loop ends up with a good chance of him getting dusty."

Xander mulled that over. No more insults, no more mooching, no more arguments, no more narrow escapes from situations arising from Spike's smart mouth writing checks his chipped ass couldn't cash... no more weekend pool games, no more scouring auto yards for parts for that damned DeSoto, no more ally in the eternal war against a full slate of chick flicks on video nights... no, wait, half the time Spike went for the gooey romantic stuff. Traitor.

No more Spike. Xander started to say "So what?" but somehow the words wouldn't come out.

It didn't look like Tara was happy with that possibility either, but she was being Responsibility Girl. "Even so... we can't just leave it here. It could be very dangerous. If it comes to a choice between Spike and leaving it--"

"We act the same way we'd act if it was any of the rest of us," Xander said. In the face of their stunned expressions, "What? He's only half as annoying as Angel was."

Willow's mouth firmed. "We'll close it somehow. Resolve face. The thing is--oh!" Her eyes lit up.

"Oh?"

Tara sounded uneasy, but Willow, caught up in her new idea, didn't notice. "Oh! We're going at it backwards!" She gave a little bounce. "Look, the spell needs a nice neat closed loop, right, so what we should be doing is giving it one! We don't try to pull Spike out, we tuck him back in!" She retrieved her diagram and elaborated further.
    
    
    Dawn = Buffy  
    \     /  
    Spike

Tara frowned. "But--oh, no, Willow! No! You're not going to l-let him bite her!"

Xander looked equally alarmed. "I'm with Tara on this one, Will. The last time Buffy let a vampire bite her out of the goodness of her heart she ended up in the emergency room. The more Spike makes with the fangs the less I feel like saving his bleached hide."

Willow rolled her eyes. "What is this thing everyone has with the biting?" She waved a hand at the near-comatose vampire. "Does Spike look even slightly bite-capable at the moment? There is no biting! All we have to do is get a drop or two of her blood and mix it with his. It doesn't have to be a big sucking thing." She glanced apprehensively over at the table where Dawn was lying. Buffy was pacing between Spike and her sister with occasional wary detours to examine her surroundings. Giles and Anya hovered to each side of her, trying without much success to convince to calm her down. "In fact, it's better to do it with the knife, it'll give it another correspondence with the way Dawn and Spike are connected. The problem is explaining it to Buffy." She got up and grabbed the silver knife. "We have to move fast."

Xander followed Willow over to the table where Buffy was peering anxiously at Dawn's pale face. "Buffy," Willow said softly, "I think I know how to help Spike. We need to mix a little of your blood with his. I'd need to prick your finger a little. It'll hurt, but only for a minute. Do you understand?"

Buffy's ears pricked up at 'help Spike' and she seemed to be listening very closely, but it was impossible to tell how much she understood. Willow mimed pricking her own finger with the knife, then pointed at Buffy. "Help Spike," she repeated.

Buffy's brows knit and she looked from Willow's hand to her own, then, carefully, brought the point of the knife over to her own hand. "H-help?" she said.

"Buff! You can talk!" Xander whooped.

"Yes!" Willow grinned with delight. "Come over here with me, Buffy, and we can help Spike. Tara?"

Tara sighed and nodded. Willow led Buffy over to the middle of the circle and crouched down beside Spike. Very carefully wiping the silver-bladed knife off on the hem of her pullover first, Willow said, "Spike, I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to have to cut you a little. The blade's gotten too dull to slice with so I'm going to stab you really quick. Here goes." She rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt and with one quick motion drove the point of the knife into the pale flesh of his arm. Spike gasped but otherwise gave no sign of feeling it. A little dark blood smeared the blade when Willow removed it, but the cut didn't bleed to speak of. "Rats," Willow muttered. "He's too tense and his blood doesn't really flow anyway... hand me that bowl. No, the clean one."

Xander passed her the bowl and Willow pressed the rim to the vampire's arm just below the cut. "Squeeze his arm, hard."

"I want you to know this is way above and beyond the call of duty," Xander grumbled, grabbing the vampire's upper arm in both hands and following Willow's directions. They managed to wring a trickle of blood and a pained snarl out of Spike before Willow nodded.

"That's enough. Buffy... will you give me your hand?"

"It'll... help?" Buffy sounded dubious.

"That's a sentence! You did a sentence, Buffy! Yes, it'll help. Hold still and--"

Buffy snatched the knife out of Willow's hand. "No."

"Buffy--"

"Me," Buffy said very firmly. She held up her hand, hesitated for a second, and then drove the point of the knife into the ball of her left thumb. Blood welled up. She held out her hand over the bowl, wincing, and Willow pressed several drops into the bowl.

Willow looked at Tara. "What do you think?"

Tara shrugged. "Anything we do now is improvising."

Willow sighed and nodded. She stirred the teaspoonful of blood in the bottom of the bowl with the knife and chanted, "A is equal to B. B is equal to C. Therefore A is equal to C. Thus be the circle completed."

"Well, that's quick and dirty," Xander said.

"We can't wait on lengthy and clean," Willow replied. "OK, let's close that sucker down!" She held out her hand and Tara took it. Both of them looked up at the vortex with matched expressions of determination. "The scale is balanced!" Willow held up the censer. "The flame is quenched!" Tara whispered a word and the piles of glowing charcoal in the hibachis went black and the candles went out, plunging the ritual space into darkness. Only the vortex was visible, spinning overhead. As they spoke its revolutions began to speed up perceptibly. Willow continued, "The earth is still, the stream returns to the ocean. Let it be finished. What we say three times be so: Porta claudatur! Porta claudatur! Porta claudatur!"

The vortex was a shimmer of motion now, whirling too fast to distinguish details. Its lurid glow painted every surface in the whole warehouse in crimson and silver, and the warehouse vibrated in sympathy with its pulse. It showed no signs of disappearing, and Tara's eyes began to betray real fear for the first time. "We didn't get it right!" she cried.

Willow's face was twisted with insane determination, and her eyes had gone black. "Yes... we... DID! **PORTA CLAUDATUR**!"

The crackling whine of magical energies strengthened, deepened, acquired undertones and overtones, a neverending chord struck on a madman's organ. All the light in the warehouse enveloped her for an instant, and she cried out, her voice lost in the roar of magic. The vortex revolved in upon itself, tighter, tighter, pulling back all the light it had scattered, and as the insane music reached its crescendo, spun itself into nothingness and disappeared.

Everything stopped. Light, sound, sensation, all fled, leaving numb darkness in their place. Slowly the world began to reassert itself. Xander realized he'd fallen to his hands and knees at some point. Someone--Giles--turned on a flashlight. "Is everyone all right?"

"Willow!" Tara croaked. Anya came over with another flashlight. Willow was sprawled on the floor, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her breathing was shallow and both eyes looked as if someone had punched her; the bruises were already starting to darken and swell. Tara took her lover's head in her lap and cradled it there, choking back sobs.

"Will?" Xander crawled over and looked down at his oldest friend's pale face. "Oh, Will... damn you, Will..."

"Second that," said a hoarse voice to the side. Spike was sitting up, looking like five miles of bad road. "I didn't want... bugger." He looked over at the table where Dawn was beginning to stir, and caught sight of Buffy. Half a dozen emotions chased across his face as his human features reasserted themselves. He got to his feet and walked over to the table as if she were the only object in the universe, but stopped short a few paces away, trembling slightly. "Hullo, love."

Buffy looked up at him gravely and took a step towards him. She raised her hand and traced the contours of his face gently, as she'd done with the others earlier, and smiled. "Spike," she said, very carefully. "Thank you. For Dawn." She patted his cheek and turned back to her sister.

Spike looked as if he were about to collapse, or burst into tears, or both, but he was grinning like a maniac again. "Any time, love," he whispered. He swiped at his eyes, turned round and glared at Giles and Xander. "Right, what're we standing about for? Let's get Dawn and Will out of here. Sunrise's coming."

A strange blatting noise from outside interrupted him, and for a moment all of them stared at one another in confusion before they realized that it was the horn of Xander's car. They'd all forgotten about Hank. The vampire cocked his head to one side, listening. "Bloody hell. Someone's coming."

Xander exchanged a look with Giles and groaned. "Vespasian."

"Damn," Giles said under his breath. "We need to get everyone out of sight, now. A fight at this point would be a disaster."

Spike jerked his chin in the direction of the back of the warehouse. "Stairs up to the catwalk are that way. Or there's Dru's and my old digs downstairs. It's a bit easier to get down there carrying dead weight, and it's got a connection to the sewers--"

"Uh, the connection to the sewers is currently a little more direct than I think we want," Xander said. "That staircase is less a staircase and more what we in the construction biz like to call a 'twisted pile of wreckage.' It collapsed when Cordy and Oz came to rescue me and Willow from your last fiendishly clever plan a few years back."

Spike sucked in his cheeks. "I can't leave you anywhere without you making a mess, can I?"

Xander gave him a look. "I meant to tell you -- you, writhing in pain on the floor back there? It's a good look for you."

Buffy smacked both of them on the backs of their heads, hard, and pointed upwards. Xander winced and rubbed his skull. "OK. Up it is."


	9. Chapter 9

Spike, with a groggy Dawn in his arms, threaded his way through the tangle of old machinery on the warehouse floor, trying to stick to a path which wouldn't give his night-blind compatriots too much trouble. They couldn't risk the flashlights now, as Vespasian's men were entering the factory. Buffy followed right behind him, keeping an anxious eye on her sister, and Xander came after carrying Willow. Tara, Giles and Anya brought up the rear, having grabbed as much of Willow's magical apparatus as they could. They'd been forced to leave the hibachis, which wasn't going to make Mr. Rosenberg happy. Willow's duffle bumped at Tara's side. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and possibly trapped, and he couldn't stop grinning.

_Buffy. Buffy. Buffy's back._ He could smell her, pure unadulterated Buffy-scent, hear her heartbeat and the faint scuff of her bare feet on the dusty floor. Yeah, she was a little confused, but it was _Buffy_ in there, looking out at him through those gorgeous hazel eyes. She'd be back, full strength. He was as irrationally certain of that as he'd once been that Drusilla's health could be restored. That had meant traveling across an ocean, finding a Hellmouth, and tracking down Dru's sire to steal his blood--all in a day's work, wasn't it? This was no different.

A small hand grabbed him by the belt loop of his jeans, slowing him down so that the rest of them could catch up. _Buffybuffybuffy. _ Damn, he was glad it was dark; he must look like a right loon. Badass vampires did NOT do the Snoopy dance, no matter how much they felt like it.

He set Dawn down when they reached the narrow stairs which led up to the catwalk. She rubbed her forehead and put out a hand to steady herself against the metal railing. Spike could sympathize; he felt as if his brain had been put through a clothes wringer, and he found himself casting occasional envious looks at the unconscious Willow. "Think you can manage the stairs, Bit?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Dawn made a face. "I'll be fine." She still looked pale and shaky, and though Buffy followed close behind her as she began to climb, Spike didn't relax until the both of them were safely at the top. He stood at the foot of the stairs as the rest of them went up one by one, shooting jittery looks over his shoulder. Vespasian's men were quartering the factory now, shining big industrial-sized flashlights into every dark corner and pawing through the detritus of Willow's spell.

Spike grabbed Willow's duffle from Tara as she reached the ladder and slung it over his own shoulder. He might not be feeling anywhere near a hundred percent yet, but it would still be easier for him to carry up a rickety staircase. Tara was climbing intolerably slowly; he reined himself in from reaching up and giving her a good push. Then at last they were all up on the catwalk, trying their best to walk softly on the clanging metal grating. Xander led the way to the freight platform. The door was still hanging ajar from their previous entrance, and Buffy practically ripped it off the hinges in her haste to get Dawn outside.

From the look of the sky outside, it still wanted an hour or more till sunrise. From their vantage point on the freight platform, they could see the two cars parked in the factory yard below, and three more dark, anonymous vehicles huddled together nearby. Each vehicle sported an equally dark, anonymous driver, waiting stolidly in the front seat. Another pair of men stood on either side of the Corvair, where someone, probably Hank, was hunched behind the wheel. Spike would have laid money on there being someone staking out the driveway and the door to the factory as well. "Ten to one they're carrying more than a few nancy little air guns," he muttered.

"We've got to find someplace less exposed," Giles said. "They've only to look up at the wrong moment to spot us here."

Buffy looked down at the field, made an unhappy noise, and sat down on the platform. She started to tug on the laces of Willow's sneakers, and Tara helped her get them off; if Willow was being carried she wouldn't need them. While Buffy put the shoes on, Spike pointed to a line of trees in the distance. "There's an irrigation ditch in the field behind the factory."

Ten minutes later, the vampire handed Dawn down to her sister, collapsed onto the sloping earthen bank of the ditch, and exhaled the breath he'd been holding ever since they'd left the freight platform. Xander and Tara were trying to make Willow comfortable in the rank growth of weeds in the bottom of the ditch, which was no easy task--at this time of year they'd died back to dry yellow-brown straw, and any which were inclined to go to prickly seed had done so. Willow was past noticing the accommodations; when Spike concentrated on picking her heartbeat and breathing out of the half-dozen others thumping away around him, both were steady enough, but slowed in deep sleep. Their big gun was going to be short on ammunition for quite awhile.

He pulled the half-crushed pack of Marlboros out of his duster pocket and lit a much needed cigarette. He lay there luxuriating in the smoke for several minutes. Yeah. Flat on his back was good. He could just lie here and sleep for a week. Or for three or four hours, until the rising sun hit the bottom of the ditch and turned him into vampire flambee. _No rest for the wicked._ He rolled over and crawled up to the top of the embankment.

Giles was already up there, peering across the field through the fringe of dead foxtails and pigweed at the impromptu parking lot in the factory yard. "Put that thing out," he said.

"We're too low to the ground for them to see it unless they've got someone on the roof." Spike stubbed the cigarette out anyway. He propped himself up on his elbows and gestured over at the cars with the butt. "I'd suggest we all make a run for my car and cram in--boot's roomy enough to hold a couple of bodies--but I expect you lot feel obligated to save that git Summers just because you happen to share a species--ow!" Dawn had punched him in the leg, which he barely felt, but Buffy had wormed her way up beside him and smacked him in the shoulder at the same time. He turned and glared at her. "Niblet, you've got an auntie, haven't you?"

"Yeeaaah," Dawn said.

"Can you introduce me, then? I'd like to meet just one Summers woman who doesn't have an irresistible urge to pummel me."

Dawn snorted callously. "You love it. Now go save my Dad."

Buffy gave him another smack, gentler this time, and Spike gave up on the glare, which was on the verge of dissolving into another goony grin anyway. "Anything you say, pet."

"Whoa, there, pilgrim." Xander joined them on the embankment. "People. Many. Carrying guns."

"Mmm," Giles agreed. "The vast majority of us are not immune to bullets. Some strategy is in order."

"And Spike's just not big enough for all of us to use him as a shield at once--ow!" Xander rubbed his shoulder. "Well, all of Buffy's muscles seem to be working just peachy."

"We already have a strategy, don't we?" Anya said from the bottom of the ditch. "We certainly spent enough time arguing about it. Why waste all that good argument?" After a moment of confused silence on everyone else's part, she added impatiently, "The disguise spell. Remember? Why can't we use that to get someone in there to rescue Xander's car? And Mr. Summers too, since he's in Xander's car."

Tara looked up from Willow's still form with a morose shake of the head. "The disguise spell which Willow and I never got around to putting together because she was too busy raising the dead, you mean?" She looked back down at her lover in mixed worry and frustration, the ends of her long hair brushing Willow's cheek. Willow stirred slightly, but didn't wake. "I could try... it's a pretty basic glamor. Only visual, and not making any big changes. The major problem we were going to work on was making it undetectable to Vespasian's staff wizards, and without Willow's help..." She trailed off, lips parted, obviously thinking. "Except... the Raising's got the ether all jangled up. The... the echoes are swamping out everything else. Any mages they've got over there probably won't be able to tell they were bespelled, even if they try."

She looked up at the three of them, a crease forming between her brows. "I won't be able to make this a tactile spell--that's the most difficult type of glamor, and I'm sorry, but I'm just..." she spread her hands and sighed. "Spike, you can be the driver--you're really close to his size, and you even look like him a little bit. I guess Xander can be Broom Guy. Giles..." She bit her lip. "Paint Guy was really short, so don't get too close to anyone. If someone tries swinging something through what they think is the empty space where your head is...it could hurt."

"Rapture," Giles muttered. "Are there any materials you need?"

Tara was already rummaging through Willow's duffle. "Let's see what's in here. We were trying to make this into a magical first aid kit, a little of everything... I don't know how much Will took out to make room for the stuff she used in the Raising..." She pulled out a small bundle of greyish wrinkly-looking things and stared at them. "Salamander tails? I thought we'd lost these..."

Spike was still trying to decide if he was insulted at being compared to Driver Guy when Buffy tugged at his sleeve. "Yeh, love? What is it?"

Buffy pointed at Giles. "Tall." At herself. "Not. I can... I... make... see... small! Arrgh!" She pounded her fist into the dirt in frustration, then swiped her hair out of her eyes and looked up at him in tight-lipped determination. "I go!"

Spike pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow at her, then turned to Tara. "Slayer's got a point, Kitten."

"Um?"

Spike sighed. Surely it was obvious. "She's a lot smaller than Rupert here is. Not to mention stronger, faster, and better-looking. Do her up as the runty one."

Tara considered this. "I guess that would work. Making Buffy look male isn't that much harder than making Giles look eight inches shorter."

Spike opened his mouth, took note of the warning glint in Buffy's eyes, and decided he wasn't in the mood to get punched into next Tuesday just yet. On the other hand, the glint was accompanied by a very slight upwards twitch of the corner of her mouth. Maybe only next Monday. He chuckled and kept his peace while Tara dug more spell ingredients out of the duffle.

"Ah! Here it is," Tara said with obvious relief. She pulled out a folder full of more of the ubiquitous computer print-outs, a roll of scotch tape, and three small cheap plastic-backed mirrors of the sort that came with a child's toy make-up set. She sorted through the print-outs and passed one of each item to Spike, Xander and Buffy. Spike studied his; it was a small overexposed photo of Driver Guy, wearing the deer-in-the-headlights look common to passports, driver's licences, and employee photo IDs. Looked like Willow had gotten some use out of the data she'd downloaded from the Van Guys' computer after all. Tara flipped open the compact and handed it to Xander. "Tear out the photo and..." she tore off a piece of tape, "stick it onto the compact mirror. Look into the mirror while I recite the charm, then rip off the photo. You should see your face change to the illusion face in the mirror. When that happens, break the mirror. That will set the spell for about an hour."

Spike raised a hand. "Eh... small problem with the methodology here."

Tara looked nonplused for a moment. "Oh. Right." She scratched her head. "Um... I guess we'll just have to wing it. Buffy, do you understand what you need to do?

Buffy nodded. Spike shrugged and began ripping the excess paper away from his photo. The spell was a simple one, the sort of low-powered cantrip just about anyone could pull off. Tara handed out more tape. He pasted the photo into place and held up the toy mirror as Tara began the chant.

"May the shadow become flesh  
As through the veil we go  
May the eye be deceived  
May the seeming be made so!"  


Spike tore the photo off; as expected, the mirror showed nothing but the bank behind him. He almost dropped it when a strange face coalesced out of the nothingness in the glass a moment later. He wasn't as unfamiliar with the current state of his own appearance as people generally assumed; contrary to popular belief, vampires photographed perfectly well, and he'd seen himself in dozens of security cameras over the years. Seeing someone else's reflection was weirder than seeing his own would have been. He resisted the temptation to play around making faces, dropped the mirror to the ground and ground it under his heel. Beside him Buffy did the same.

"It worked!" Tara sounded as much surprised as pleased.

Spike turned to Buffy and found the thin, rabbity features of Paint Guy looking up at him. For a second blind _she's gone_! panic shot through him, until his other senses ganged up on his eyesight and gave it a stern talking-to. She still smelled like Buffy, and Tara'd said she'd still feel like Buffy, but he wasn't going to try that one out because a bloke only had so much self-control, and touching Buffy at this point would just lead to more touching Buffy...holding Buffy...nuzzling Buffy... getting punched into next Tuesday by Buffy... He was grinning again. _Get a grip, mate_.

"Remember, we want to avoid provoking a fight," Giles said. "All you need to do is ascertain the status of the unfortunates they planned to sacrifice, and divert attention away from the rest of us while we get to Spike's car. Get the keys to Xander's car if possible, or failing that, get Mr. Summers out of it."

At the word 'sacrifice', Buffy looked startled. "Sacrifice? We're here... to stop one?" She touched her forehead gingerly. "Giles... I don't remember. What happened to Willow? Why's Dawn here? My head's all... fuzzy." She looked down at her hands, her lips moving, trying to put the shreds of her memory into order. "Dad," she said, still frowning. "You said Dad was here? How... when did he..."

Giles looked pained, and began fiddling with his glasses. "You've... not been... well... for some time. You--" His voice broke imperceptibly. "You shouldn't be here at all, I'm afraid."

"Bit harsh, Rupert," Spike drawled, folding his arms and lounging back against the embankment. "I'd say the Slayer's exactly where she's supposed to be, saving some clueless tosser's arse from the forces of unrighteousness."

"We can talk about whether Buffy should have stayed where she was later," Dawn said, very tightly, and that ended the subject for the moment.

"Bring the cars to the gate," Giles said as they set off towards the factory yard. "We'll be a bit down the road, out of sight of anyone guarding the gate."

Spike led them around anything which would have required tetanus shots if stepped on, keeping to the cover of the rusting hulks which dotted the field. The dew was starting to settle on the long grass, and everyone's ankles were soon soaked. Buffy matched his pace easily, but the others, lacking their superhuman agility, lagged a little behind on the rough ground. Spike paused at the edge of the field to let them catch up. The factory yard itself had once been divided from the rest of the field by a chain-link fence, but it had fallen into disrepair long ago. The posts were bent and the chain-link was sagging, and in several places it was torn entirely away, replaced by makeshift plywood patches which were themselves sagging and rotting. Spike crept silently up to one of the patches and stood behind it, listening. "Clear," he whispered after a moment.

Buffy ducked through the gap in the fence and Spike and Xander followed behind her while the others waited behind the cover of the plywood. Once a safe distance from the fence, the infiltrators straightened up and adopted a purposeful stride, the walk of people who knew where they were going and had every right to go there. The headlights of the newcomers' cars cris-crossed the yard in a web of light, and Vespasian's people in their dark conservative suits moved along the strands like spiders. Several of them were holding long slender wands of wood or metal, carrying them slowly about the yard and sweeping them back and forth as if dowsing for something. The tips of the wands quivered erratically. Others, in coveralls reminiscent of the Van Guys', were carrying boxes of magical equipment into the factory--or they had been; the discovery that someone else had been there before them had thrown the whole project into disarray, and the workers had set down their crates around the main door to the warehouse and were taking the opportunity to stand around and smoke.

"I don't see any vans or stretch limos or anything that screams 'prisoners in here'," Xander said. "Can the Inhuman Bloodhound here tell...?"

Spike shook his head. "Way too many people about, and I don't know who to look for."

A slender, dark-haired man in a suit an order of magnitude more expensive than those adorning the middle-management minions in the yard came striding out of the warehouse, cell phone glued to his ear. He appeared to be in his early forties: his hair had exactly enough grey at the temples to register as distinguished, and his face was only faintly lined, in the manner of someone who enjoyed the dual benefits of favorable heredity and an excellent health club. A hovering crowd of half a dozen aides and flunkies followed him at a safe distance. Buffy's eyes narrowed. "He looks important."

They edged closer, on the pretext of inspecting the crates piled by the door. Spike picked up the thread of the conversation easily. "...yesterday night? Has he been conscious since? No, no need for that yet. And there's no sign of the other two? Ah. No, Danner checked in as usual... have Beckman analyze the headers on his last few messages and see if he comes up with anything interesting, and have Enderby alert the local police that the van's been stolen. Call me immediately if you get more news." He hung up, punched another number into the phone and stood there waiting impassively for whoever was on the other end to pick up.

Now that wasn't a good sign. In Spike's considerable experience, the ones who turned to ice under pressure were a damned sight more dangerous than the ones who exploded. "Mr. Bryce? Extremely bad news. We've been compromised." A pause, in which his face went noticeably paler. "One of our people here was admitted to the county hospital as a John Doe Monday night with a severe concussion. He's in a coma. The other two appear to have left town."

Spike snorted. _Well, there's a waste of uplifting moral sentiment for you. Should have gone ahead and eaten him._

Vespasian was silent for a moment, the corners of his mouth twisting with the muted resentment of a man being chewed out for circumstances beyond his control. "No, I hadn't realized. This complicates... no, it wouldn't be impossible for us to secure more subjects, sir, even at this point. This is a Hellmouth, after all. But if the living subjects have been waylaid..."

Xander grinned. "Score one for Giles Lite!"

"We have one possible substitute available now, sir. We found an intruder at the warehouse, and though we haven't had the time to interrogate him thoroughly... No. I'd suggest that you call Lilah Morgan immediately and have her people deal with Immigration. That could be extremely embarrassing... no, I realize that." One Italian-leather shod foot began tapping. "Here? My assumption would be that this Spike whom Danner reported interfering with them last week took them out. According to our local sources he was Master in Sunnydale for a short time in 1998 before the Slayer disabled him..."

"The Slayer cheated," Spike grumbled under his breath.

Buffy snickered. "I bet the sun was in your eyes, too."

"Least I've never been saved by my mum."

Xander made a hushing noise. "Can you two postpone the walk down memory lane?"

"...and he may still consider the place his territory," Vespasian continued. "He also had an ongoing feud with the Slayer, and from all accounts was involved in her death, so presumably he'd be very eager to prevent her return--"

Spike growled in pure fury, but Buffy and Xander had both seen the yellow flicker in the vampire's eyes in time and each clamped a hand on his shoulders before he could start the lunge at Vespasian. A second later the hand which was doing the most towards restraining him dropped nervelessly away and Spike spun round, forgetting all about Vespasian. Buffy had gone white as the impact of the words sank in. "Death?" she whispered. "My death?"

And it all hit. Spike could see it in her wide stricken eyes, all the little pieces coming together, remembering Glory, and the tower, and how he'd failed Dawn and failed her and how she'd made good that failure with her own life. She crumpled, sagging against the crates and gripping their corners hard enough to leave finger-shaped impressions in the wood, staring fixedly at nothing. "I--I died. D-died. I died. I--"

Spike squeezed his eyes shut for a second, schooled every scrap of sympathy out of his voice and snarled, "We haven't got time for waterworks, Slayer, unless you want your Dad to go the same way your sis almost did!"

"Back off, Spike!"

"Sod off, Harris." Ask him to be kind, to be comforting, and he had to stumble in the dark. Compassion didn't come naturally to his kind, and he had to struggle for it, fight for the right gestures, search for the right words. For her the fight was worth it; he would rather have taken a stake than see that hurt, shocky look in her eyes. But there was no time for struggle, no time at all.

"I died," she whispered, as if repetition could leach the words of horror.

Ask him to piss someone off, on the other hand... that he could do in a heartbeat. "Yeh? Well, join the bloody club. Unless you're keen on a repeat performance I'd suggest you get off your delectable arse and help us get out of here in one piece."

Buffy stared at him, and her eyes flickered, banked coals suddenly fanned into flame behind Paint Guy's illusory features. She straightened and pushed herself upright, shooting him a look of loathing. "Let's go, then," she said, heading for the cars. As she brushed by Spike she said, low enough that only he could hear, "Right now I hate you."

The muscles in his jaw twitched. _So do I, love_.

"But... thanks."

Spike stared after her, not quite believing that he'd just heard Buffy Summers say 'Thank you'--to _him_\--for the second time in one night. She'd never thanked him for anything before, not in so many words. It had always been _I'm depending on you, Spike,_ or _Spike, you're the only one who can.._. whatever it was she'd wanted him to do. He hadn't minded much. Gratitude was an emotion that tended to go sour. Knowing that she relied on him had been satisfaction enough, or so he'd thought then--now with two little words she'd set him looping off through the clouds.

No time for that, either. Spike pulled himself back to earth, aided by Xander's dagger glare, and followed Buffy down to the end of the stack of crates. She stopped, hands on hips, her eyes taking in the factory yard and the positions of everyone in it.

The DeSoto and Xander's Corvair were parked about fifty feet from the main doors to the factory. The three dark shiny rental cars Vespasian's people had arrived in were ranked at an angle off to the right, their headlights trained on the main doors to the factory. The beams from the headlights of the nearest one clipped the right front fender of the DeSoto, but the rear end of the cars were in darkness. A fourth rental, a brand new Caravan so sleek it was hard to tell from one of the cars, was backed right up to the main doors so the magical supplies could be unloaded. Seeing the sheer amount of junk they'd brought for their ritual gave Spike a new appreciation for Willow's ability to cut a spell down to the bare necessities.

The two men guarding their cars and the three more waiting beside Vespasian's vehicles were the most immediate danger; several of them sported tell-tale bulges in the lines of their jackets which signified a shoulder holster, and the one standing beside the DeSoto was carrying something that looked like a double-barreled shotgun. Spike wasn't too worried about the guns; taking a few bullets might hurt, but it wouldn't kill him. As long as they didn't have anything fully automatic--a whole lot of bullets fired in the right places could potentially chop him to messes, and discovering just how well vampires healed from being ripped in half on the dotted line was not on his to-do list for the winter.

The four men who'd been unloading the Caravan were still milling around in the factory doorway, awaiting further instructions, and Vespasian and his little coterie of followers stood about ten feet away from the door, even with the stack of crates off to one side. The two women with the strange-looking wands had left the yard for the inside of the factory. Occasional shouts and moving lights from within signaled the continued efforts of Bryce's staff wizards to determine what exactly had occurred in their ritual space. It wouldn't do to assume that none of the three flunkies hovering at Vespasian's side had any magical training, either.

"How many do you make it?" Buffy asked.

Spike squinted into the darkness; the headlights were interfering with his night vision. "A dozen out here, half a dozen in there, give or take," he whispered. "Half with guns or magic enough to make our lives unpleasant. The blokes inside won't be able to get out here very quickly."

Buffy nodded. "So--what _are_ we doing here? I've been out of the loop." She sounded resigned, grim... tired. Deathly tired. He wanted to hold her so badly...

Xander crouched down to get a better look around the crates. He pointed to Vespasian, who was still talking to Bryce. "He's trying to cast a spell to, uh, bring you back from the dead. We're trying to stop him." He glared at Spike. "Or some of us are. Were."

Buffy's luminous hazel eyes were unreadable. Xander licked his lips nervously and continued, "They were gonna be bringing in some human sacrifices from L.A. for the ritual, but it sounds like Angel and his band of Merry Men were able to mess that part up. All we need to do is make sure they don't try to run out and grab a few ringers and go ahead with the spell anyway. With you not being dead and all, it would probably fizzle in some entertaining way I'd really love to watch, but their lucky volunteers would end up just as dead."

"And my dad's in your car?"

"Number one on the ringer list." Xander peered round the corner of the crates again. "Will guessed they had a copy of this scroll... Azi-something. Sounded like a Harry Potter title. If we can get hold of that it should slow them down."

"We don't even know who's got the sodding thing. Just smashing up some of their tackle should slow 'em down." Spike slapped the crate in front of him. "No toys, no spell."

"We get Dad out first." Buffy's tone brooked no argument. "We'll have to cross right in front of him to get to the cars." Her eyes moved to Vespasian; he was still talking to Bryce about the technical difficulties of re-scheduling the spell. "Xander, you'll have to do the talking when we get over to the guards," she said, clipped and businesslike. Of course, the whelp would have to be the one to do the talking, Spike thought. The spell didn't affect voices, and Buffy would sound like a girl and he'd sound British. "Draw their attention. Find out who's got the keys. Spike, when he does, get them. Quietly." She paused, a worried look overtaking her for a moment. "Uh... you're Larceny Guy, right? You _can_ pick pockets, can't you?"

"He can pick pockets," Xander said darkly, one hand going protectively to his wallet. Spike smirked at him.

"Good. Let's go." Buffy left the shelter of the crates and strode boldly out across the yard, right past Vespasian, with the other two trailing her. Halfway to the cars, Spike fell back a few steps and headed off at an angle to the other two. As Buffy and Xander drew closer to the cars both guards straightened suspiciously. Spike kept walking, circling behind their cars until he was past them and out of the glare of the headlights. He took a look over at the gate. It was open, and from the look of it he wasn't sure it could be closed, there were so many layers of weeds and old trash drifted about the bottom. If anyone were stationed there, they were outside the fence and invisible from here. The air was dead still, and the tangle of scents in the yard made it impossible to tell anything by that route.

Xander shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled over to the guard by his own car, gawking around him open-mouthed, the perfect image of local talent overawed by the arrival of the big boys. Buffy stopped beside the DeSoto. The two of them kept just far enough away from one another to make it difficult for either guard to keep both of them in sight at once. "Hey there," Xander hailed the guard on the Corvair. "Where did the big boss want us to take these cars?"

The guard adjusted his cap and looked Xander up and down. Mostly up. Broom Guy being a big Neanderthal lug was finally to their advantage. One corner of the guard's mouth twitched scornfully, and his wary stance relaxed a trifle. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The cars," Xander repeated, with the air of someone talking to a rather dim child. "We can't leave them here. Where's the keys?"

"Who's asking for them to be moved?" the second guard asked, suspicious.

Spike observed the second guard's hand twitch slightly in the direction of his jacket pocket as he spoke, and began drifting silently forward between the two cars. He wondered if the Initiative doctors who'd saddled him with the chip would have appreciated the irony: in preventing him from being an effective killer, they'd forced him to become a much more effective thief. Aside from the occasional necessity of nicking things from Angelus or Darla back in the old days, he'd never had much reason to play Artful Dodger before the chip. If he wanted anything, it had been much easier just to kill the owner and take it. Nowadays having cash on hand made his unlife a lot easier, so he'd worked his way up from palming people's tips to lifting wallets. It kept him in blood and fags... and besides, it was fun.

Not a skill he expected the Scoobies to commend him for any time soon, he thought with a mirthless grin--unless they needed him to employ it in their behalf, of course. He moved into position behind the guard and nodded to Buffy. While Xander kept talking, and the guard failed to be convinced, she began wandering around the hood of the DeSoto, gradually edging towards the second guard. She bent over by the front driver's side window, shading her eyes as if trying to see through the cloudy glass.

"Quit messing with the car," the second guard snapped.

"Sorry!" Buffy said, with none-too-convincing gruffness. She stepped back hurriedly, faked a stumble, and fell awkwardly towards the guard. He stepped back to avoid her and bumped into Spike. The vampire caught him and shoved him forward again, slipping one nimble hand into the man's pocket and extracting the keys to the Corvair as he did so.

Spike tucked the keys into his own pocket and stepped back, trying for a note of injured surprise. "Hey! Watch it, ma--dude!"

Unfortunately for their hopes for a quiet getaway, the guard wasn't an idiot. He could tell he'd been set up, even if he wasn't sure exactly what for. He thrust the butt of the shotgun back, driving it hard into Spike's stomach. The vampire grunted, but the human's strength wasn't enough to hurt him badly. The ominous _ka-click_ of the gun being cocked hadn't entirely died away before the vampire's fingers were locked around the guard's arms.

He couldn't hurt the bugger, but he didn't have to. Buffy lunged forward, batted the barrel of the gun aside as if it were a toy, and drove one small fist into the guard's jaw. The man's head snapped back and his eyes rolled up. He slumped back against the vampire's chest. Spike and Buffy both froze, the guard sandwiched between them, and glanced warily around to see if any of the drivers over in the rental cars had noticed the altercation. There were no shouts, no running. Spike draped the guard up against the side of the car and pried the shotgun out of his fingers. He got a good grip on one of the barrels and cocked his head to one side, holding the gun up with a smile. "Make a wish, luv?"

Buffy grabbed hold of the other barrel and pulled. Both of them threw their shoulders into it, and the metal made tortured little spanging sounds as both barrels parted ways. There was a good three or four inch gap between the barrels when Buffy let up the pressure. Spike examined their handiwork with pleasure and set the shotgun on the ground beside the guard's feet.

"Look, all I know is I was told to move them," Xander was saying loudly. His guard was looking antsy; they'd have to move fast.

Spike fished his own keys out of his duster and made a quick check that all the doors of his car were unlocked. "Harris! Catch!" He held up Xander's keyring and tossed it in Xander's direction. They arced over the Corvair's roof, flashing briefly as they passed through a headlight beam, and Xander, looking up, reached up and grabbed them out of the air.

"Hey!" Xander's guard yelled, going for his pistol. Xander dropped to the ground like a rock, and Buffy tore around the front of the Corvair, grabbing the guard's shoulder and spinning him around. The pistol went off with a muffled crack as she twisted it free of the guard's grasp, and the heady scent of Slayer's blood filled the air like perfume as the gun went spinning away into the night.

_Her blood_.

Spike's mind went utterly blank, no thoughts, nothing but flame-colored rage. He was over the Corvair's hood with an inhuman roar--you heard panthers scream like that--vaulting through the air, face reverting to fangs and twisted snarling demon-ridges you couldn't see through the illusion, and it wasn't that he'd lost the balance he'd sought and found in the grip of the spell, oh no, not at all: man and demon were screaming for his foe's blood with one voice. Through a scarlet fog he saw the guard's confused face as the man went down beneath him, and William the Bloody laughed as his fangs closed on the man's throat and oh _yeah_ there were times when it still felt good, still felt absofuckinlutely great--

In the corner of his eye, Buffy staggered over to Xander, clutching her arm where the bullet had creased her.

_Alive_.

In the space of a heartbeat the single-minded fury which had allowed him to ignore the fact that his brain was exploding dissolved into abject relief. Pain hit him like a freight train to the head. Spike keeled over, fangs tearing free of the guard's neck. Black spots rimmed with gold crawled before his eyes like a resurgence of the vortex, and if he'd eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours, it came up. The guard lurched backwards with a hand clapped to his bleeding throat, realized that whatever the hell had just hit him was no longer a threat, and began laying into the vampire with both fists.

Spike had been living with the chip for two years. He was used to it, as much as one could ever get used to something that shot a few hundred volts through you every time you lapsed into doing what came naturally. Given a few moments to plan, he could work around it a bit, come up with things to do in a fight which would keep his own hide in one piece without directly harming his opponent. Problem was, people he wanted to beat the crap out of were so sodding unreasonable about giving him those few moments. Spike flung both arms over his head in equal parts pain and fury, trying to roll out of the man's reach. He managed to scramble back around to the passenger side of the car on hands and knees, the guard stumbling after in hot pursuit and both of them looking as bloody stupid as it was possible to look in a fight to the death.

Xander, on the other side of the car, had clawed his way to his knees and jammed the key into the Corvair's door lock. He ripped the door open and shoved Hank unceremoniously aside. "Don't shoot!" Hank yelled, fumbling with the lock on the passenger door and swinging it open with the force of terror. Spike saw it coming and plastered himself flat to the ground with every bit of speed he could wring out of his supernatural reflexes. He felt the door graze his shoulders. A second later it slammed into the pursuing guard's gut. Another second later Buffy's good hand latched onto a fistful of the guard's hair and cracked his head into the top of the door. He collapsed with a groan.

Buffy pushed her father back inside the car and slammed the door on him. "Get back in there, you're being rescued!" She reached down and yanked Spike to his feet; he swayed for a moment, trying to shake off the chip-induced wooziness, and grabbed the door handle of the DeSoto to steady himself. Now there were yells aplenty, as the other three drivers, alerted by the gunshot, left their stations to see what was the matter. All three of them were racing towards the two cars, pistols drawn. Spike slid into the DeSoto and gunned the engine. Xander was already pulling his car into a hard left to circle back out to the drive as Buffy jumped into the passenger seat of the DeSoto. As the engine roared to life the vampire hunched forward over the steering wheel with blood in his eyes, gauging the distance to the factory doors. Growling deep in his throat, Spike slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and the DeSoto rocketed forwards, tires screeching. The unfortunate guard who'd been propped up against it rolled off and bounced to the ground--and that didn't produce a single twinge from the damned chip; Spike had honestly forgotten the wanker existed.

"What are you doing?" Buffy yelled. She sounded more brassed off than anything else. Her voice was drowned out by a crash as the car's front end plowed into the pile of crates outside the warehouse, and a series of crunching, snapping noises as the contents of the crates went flying.

"Smashing things, pet," Spike rasped through clenched fangs, punching the car into reverse. It would delay the spell a bit, which was fine, and after that fiasco with the guard he bloody well deserved to smash something.

Buffy wasn't paying attention. Her eyes had narrowed. "Wait," she said before he could hit the gas. She was out of the car and racing across the pavement like a tigress. One of the drivers was taking aim at the departing Corvair; the other two had returned to their cars to chase after it. The web had been shredded, and the spiders were in a panic. Buffy wove in and out, a mote in the beams of moving headlights. Again like a tigress she pounced, and then she was running back, dragging a dark shape with her. She flung Vespasian through the open door of the car and jumped into the back seat. Half a second later Spike was peeling out towards the ramshackle gates, swerving to avoid the limp form of guard number two at the last moment. He didn't know if deliberately running someone down would make the chip activate, and he didn't want to find out.

The Corvair was already through the gates, having pulled up for only a moment outside the fence to load Willow, Tara and Anya inside. Spike slammed on the brakes just outside the gates, and Giles and Dawn flung the back doors open and swarmed inside. "Buffy!" Dawn cried, flinging her arms around her sister.

"Buffy, are you all right?" Giles asked.

Buffy glanced down at the blood-soaked rip in her shirt and nodded. "Flesh wound. Xander's shirt is toast, though."

Two shots rang out behind them, followed by the metallic whine of a ricochet. Spike didn't even bother to flinch. Couldn't be more than twenty-two calibre. God, he could stand out there and let the bastards use him for target practice if he felt like a laugh, but he couldn't take chances with the humans; shock was tricky and he'd seen a man die of an apparently superficial wound more than once in a long and violent life.

The other cars were rumbling to life behind them. Pity they hadn't had the opportunity to slash all the tires, Spike thought, flooring the gas pedal again and taking off down the road in a squeal of burning rubber even before Giles had the door closed. Ahead of them the road distorted and wavered like a heat mirage, and the hot tingle of magic scorched the air. Spike had a split second to decide whether to drive through or try to go around; recalling the condition of the field, he grit his teeth and plunged forward. There was a fizzling noise and the illusion of Paint Guy in the rear-view mirror was replaced by Buffy's pale, strained face. If they'd had any magical defenses, that had probably been a spell designed to neutralize them. His own disguise must have disappeared at the same moment, for Vespasian suddenly registered the fact that the person driving the car was a vampire in full game face and a very bad mood.

Vespasian flung himself into the door, scrabbling for the handle. It came off in his hand. Spike was about to add that to his list of things-to-be-killed-for when he remembered he'd taken the thing off himself to prevent Dru from getting out on the way to South America, and never tightened it up again properly after he'd put it back on. Never mind, he'd blame Vespasian for it anyway. Buffy's left arm snaked around Vespasian's throat from the rear and pulled him back against the car seat. "Dawn, get the phone out of his pocket," she said.

Dawn rummaged through Vespasian's coat for the cell phone. She handed it to Buffy, who shook it in front of his face. "Call them," she said. "Call them and tell them to leave us alone. Now. I'm back, your spell won't work, and if you know what's good for you you'll take your sorry asses back to L.A. on the next bus because I am NOT a happy camper."

Vespasian's eyes were rolling wildly in his head as he tried to get a look at the woman who was half-choking him. "You--you're..."

"You wanted the Slayer," Spike said with a fangy grin. "You got her."


	10. Chapter 10

Negotiating Vespasian's return took the rest of the waning night. The eastern sky was streaked with peach and gold by the time the little cavalcade of dark cars pulled away. Dawn sat curled in the back seat of the DeSoto, huddled in her windbreaker, and watched their taillights dwindle to an ant-trail of red sparks in the distance. It wasn't really cold, but she was shivering with exhaustion.

Giles and Buffy stood out on the shoulder of the road watching them leave, Spike a dark watchful presence at Buffy's shoulder. At last the brightening sky drove the vampire back into the car. Spike exhaled loudly as he dropped into the driver's seat; he looked as tired as Dawn felt. Not just tired, old--old as Mom, old as Mr. Giles. The faint morning light which made it through the blacked-out windows showed up the little lines at the corners of his eyes. Despite that he looked as happy as she could ever remember having seen him.

"You almost killed that guy that shot Buffy," she said.

Spike draped one elbow over the back of the seat and looked at her. His eyes were half-lidded and a small smile quirked his lips. "Yeh."

"And it doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"Nah." Spike considered. "Well, it bothers me I had a nice dinner in hand and didn't think to swallow." His long pale pink tongue flicked out, licking the last traces of the guard's blood off his chin, looking for all the world like a cat polishing cream off its whiskers. Dawn wondered if it were disturbing that she didn't find that disturbing.

"Would it bother you if you had killed him?"

"Dunno, Niblet." His ice-blue gaze fixed on Buffy through the cloudy windshield and he chuckled. "Oh, who'm I kidding, he shot your sis. I'd've loved it." He leaned back and massaged his temples. "Head still hurts, though. That was a bitch of a shock."

Dawn nodded, biting her lip. She rested her chin on her clasped hands and thought for awhile. "So if when he shot her I... kind of wanted you to kill him, that's pretty evil, huh?"

The scarred eyebrow rose. "'Kind of' wanted me to kill 'im? Bite-size, as evil goes, the words 'totally lame' spring to mind." He gave a little hiss of pain; his left hand was starting to smoke ever so slightly. He gave it a shake and shifted position to avoid the worst of the filtered sunlight. He rolled down the window a fraction and shouted "Oi, Slayer, can we cut the sightseeing tour short? Some of us want to avoid spontaneous combustion!"

After a lingering look at the point where the road disappeared over the horizon, Buffy turned and walked over to the car. Giles followed her. In stark contrast to Spike's mood, he seemed broody, in a stiff-upper-lip British way. Now that the immediate danger was over, Buffy had a lost look in her eyes, as though she'd run out of script and wasn't sure what to do next. She got into the front seat and looked over her shoulder at Dawn, then at Spike. Spike looked perfectly content to stare at Buffy all day. They'd all run out of steam at the same time.

"The first order of business is to get in touch with your father," Giles said, stepping into the breach. "Take us to my apartment, Spike. We can call Anya from there and find out where the others are."

It had been only six hours ago that they'd driven along this highway, and it felt to Dawn as if it had been in another world. No one said much. Spike, eager to get out of the sun, drove with his usual reckless abandon and then some, humming some creaky old Ramones number. Buffy laid her head against the window and closed her eyes. Giles brooded on the seat beside Dawn, sitting tensely forward on the old leather as if to relax in this particular car would be some sort of unforgivable personal lapse. He winced a few times when Spike cut another car off more closely than usual, but said nothing.

"A lot of stuff happened while you were dead," Dawn ventured into the silence. She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the back of Spike's seat. "I can't believe no one's said this yet--I missed you, Buffy. It sucked that you were dead. I'm glad you're back."

Buffy ducked her head and said nothing.

"Did you miss us? While you were dead, I mean."

"Dawn..." Giles said warningly.

Dawn turned on him belligerently. "What? Are we all just supposed to pretend she was in Bermuda or something?"

"Certainly not. Your sister deserves time to--"

"I don't remember." Buffy stared down at her hands. Her voice was low, even, almost emotionless. "What it was like. If it was like anything. If I was even..." Her fingers curled, fists clenching. "All I know is... there was nothing more I had to do. Ever." There was longing in her sister's voice, and that, more than anything she'd seen or heard tonight, creeped Dawn out. Buffy flexed her fingers and looked up, her changeable eyes grey in the filtered light. "I don't feel... real."

Dawn shivered, but plowed on determinedly. "Neither did I, last winter. If you wanna obsess about it for the next six months, fine. I know obsessing's your thing. But you know what? Mom was right. Soup does help. Glowy energy fields don't need soup, and neither do dead people." She glanced at Spike. "Most dead people. But live people do. My advice is have some soup. Chicken rice is good." Dawn sat back and folded her arms with a decisive nod. Buffy stared at her as if she'd just sprouted antlers, and Spike gave a bark of laughter.

"Don't be daft, Niblet! Cream of tomato, no contest."

  
*****  


The closer they got to home the deeper Giles' frown became. Dawn and Spike regaled Buffy with contradictory and obviously much-edited accounts of what they'd been up to over the summer. Buffy listened to them, slightly bewildered by references to events and people she'd missed out on, occasionally startled into a smile in spite of herself.

He felt slightly guilty that he hadn't kept closer track of Dawn, but his charge had always been Buffy; he had no responsibility towards her sister. Technically, he could have returned to England and made his report to the Council within a week of her death, received reassignment, and never seen Sunnydale again. He hadn't wanted to go that far, tempting though it had been to cut every tie cleanly and at once, but his major emotion when Willow had volunteered her parents as Dawn's temporary guardians, and when the Rosenbergs had accepted, had been relief. Which emotion had only increased when he'd been told of Hank Summers' return to the States. There had been days when he could barely stand to look at the girl. Sometimes it was still hard. He resented her for being alive when Buffy was dead, for seducing Buffy from her Slayer's duty by her very existence, for having been slipped into their memories like a cuckoo--and like a cuckoo, pushing the true Summers to her death. None of that was Dawn's fault, and as an honorable man he tried not to hold it against her... but it was there nonetheless.

Dawn felt it, too. With him she was always reserved, wary, the polar opposite of her casual rapport with Spike--and perhaps, Giles thought a trifle bitterly, that rapport wasn't surprising considering that at various times both Spike and Dawn had almost been the death of Buffy. He dismissed the thought immediately as unworthy, but he still wished that two of them would just shut up.

Spike stayed in the car with Dawn when they reached the apartment, citing a lack of interest in bursting into flame. Buffy followed Giles inside. She looked around at the piles of books and papers which drifted over almost every available flat surface. After two months away, there was still a thin film of dust over everything, and the place had an air of desertion and neglect more than of scholarship. Buffy wrapped her arms around herself. "Home sweet home," she said under her breath, then, "You haven't said much."

Was that hurt in her voice? Giles shifted a pile of last year's _Miskatonic Journal of the Paranatural_ to get to the telephone. "I--I truly don't know what to say. I'd be lying if I claimed I'm not... pleased to see you again, but..." He fumbled with his glasses, avoiding her face. "Buffy... my dear girl... can you forgive me for not wanting you back--not this way?"

She sat down on the arm of the couch and began picking at the frayed ends of the bullet hole in her shirt sleeve, pulling out long raveled threads and working them into fuzzy little balls between her fingers. "Yeah. I mean... yeah. Willow brought me back, didn't she? That's why she was all comatose, right?"

Giles nodded. "She and Spike, and your sister. I believe she meant well," he added. "Willow always means well."

"I don't think I wanted to come back this way either." Tears welled up in her eyes, but didn't spill over. He hadn't seen her weep since her mother's funeral, and that had been only a few lone, stoic tears. All her grief and anger had been bundled up and channeled into saving her sister's life... and now what? "I was finished, Giles. My whole life got wrapped up in a neat little bow. Now... now it's all untied again."

His eyes slid away from her face, from her eyes, not because her eyes were changed by death, but because they were not. _Tell Giles I figured it out._ Sometimes those words had been all that had kept him going through the long summer. None of the others knew why. They hadn't been privy to that final conversation in the training room, hadn't realized just how deeply she'd sunk into despair that last night. She hadn't allowed them to see it. The others had seen her cast iron hard; so few people realized how brittle cast iron was. He had comforted himself that she had, at least, found a measure of peace in death. Now they'd taken even that from her, for the sake of their own selfish comfort, and he'd failed to stop them.

Giles felt his throat constrict. Deal with it, Dawn had said, but that was easier said than done. Buffy made a small, sad questioning noise deep in her throat, and he cursed himself. She didn't deserve his cowardice. He forced himself to look at her. She was back, however damaged, and she was still the girl--the woman, now--whom he loved as a daughter. He took both her hands in his. "My dear girl," he whispered. "I am so sorry. And so glad."

Her eyes searched his face, and then she hugged him tightly, thin strong arms exerting only a fraction of the pressure of which they were capable. Careful of him and his merely human frailty. "It's all right, Giles." She sighed and squeezed his hand, her mouth firming though her eyes were still weary. "I'll... go home and have some soup." Resigned. She was here, she would go on. This was, after all, Buffy Summers. Of course she would go on. Giles drew away from her hastily, lest emotion get away with him, picked up the phone, and dialed the number of Anya's cell.

  
*****  


Tara opened the door to Giles's knock late on Friday afternoon. "How is she?" he asked.

"Better," Tara said. "Sitting up and eating a little." She glanced back into the room. "You're not the first one here, though. This may not be a good time for..."

Giles looked over the top of Tara's head and into the room beyond. The blinds in the twin windows were drawn, and the swags of filmy material which were normally draped decoratively along the tops had been let down to provide what scant extra coverage they could. Willow was sitting up in the bed, several textbooks scattered around her. The bruises round her eyes had darkened to a spectacular purply-black, and the whites of her eyes were a bloody crimson. She looked rather like a hung-over raccoon, and she was in full Willow-panic. "Three days," she was saying. "Three days! Do you know how much vital lecture time you lose in three days? I'll never catch up! I'll get Djuna Barnes mixed up with Anais Nin! I'll be Behind-the-class Moron Girl for the rest of the semester!"

"You won't get to the Left Bank lezzies for another three weeks at least. All you've missed so far is George and Percy." The rasping North London tones dripped disdain. The vampire was sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed, squinting down his nose at one of the books. "Listen to this rot-- _'Dust to dust, ashes to ashes/Into the tomb the great queen dashes_.' I could bloody well do better than that."

"Spike," Giles said. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Spike shrugged, tossed the book aside and got to his feet with that mixture of bravado and wariness which meant he'd been caught at something he didn't want to admit to, though whether it was reading one of Shelley's less brilliant works or being something approaching thoughtful towards Willow wasn't entirely clear. He shoved his hands into his duster pockets and attempted to look nonchalant. "Just happened to be passing by. I have to meet the Slayer in..." he looked at the clock, "five hours, and thought I'd see if Red'd croaked on us. I'll clear off and let Rupert pay his manly yet sensitive respects."

"No, Spike, do stay." Spike's posture began shifting further into wariness at the quiet menace in Giles' voice. "Quite fortuitous finding you here, really. While I'm pleased to see that Willow's recovering, this is more in the nature of an, er, business visit. One which involves you and Willow both." He took of his glasses and held them up to the light, then rounded on both of them in a fury. "What the bloody hell were the two of you _thinking_?"

He looked from the vampire to the witch, lips tight with disgust. "I'll be frank, Willow, I hold you most responsible for this. I'm disappointed to find Spike involved, but I can't be surprised that a demon whose natural bent is towards evil would want to get Buffy back at any cost, bugger the consequences to her or anyone else. You, though..." He shook his head angrily. "You have no such excuse."

He was gratified to see shame blossom in Willow's eyes for a moment, but it was quickly extinguished by defiance. "You know, I'm not exactly the first person to bring Buffy back from the dead! How come when Xander uses CPR it's all 'Yay Xander, you the man!' but if I use magic it's 'Oooh, Willow's gone all Dark Phoenix?' It's just anti-magic prejudice is what it is, and it's not fair." She scrunched down in the pillows and looked around pitifully. "I feel sick. I think I'm going to throw up."

Tara twisted her hands together. She was obviously miserable, but as implacable in her own way as Giles. "Science works with the world. Magic works around it. Can't you see the difference? W-willow... you know I love you more than anything, but I can't--I can't just let this go. You know how I feel--you know how Buffy felt about spells like this--"

"And it would have been better to let Bryce get her?" Willow cried in frustration. "Because sooner or later he would have. He didn't _have_ to try Raising Buffy in the place where she died, you know, it's easier here, but he could have done it in--in--Laguna Beach! Anywhere! We could have messed up this try, but what about the next one, and the next? And the longer it took the worse shape Buffy's head would be in when he finally did get her. All right, fine, the original spell was full of evil badness, but I didn't use the original spell! And fine, I screwed up the spell I did use! I am a big fat screwup and I almost got Spike dusted! You think I don't feel like crap about that already?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't." Giles voice was arctic. "Or at least, I don't believe you'll feel that way long enough to let it sink in and make a permanent impression. You were terribly sorry after your attempted cursing of Veruca, or casting the my-will-be-done spell, yet here you are, employing black magic again. And yes, it would have been better to let Bryce get her. The violation of Buffy's spirit would have been of equal magnitude, but at least your own soul would have remained unsullied--you do realize, don't you, that simply casting this type of spell is enough to bring you to the attention of powers best not named? I've personal experience in this area, you may recall. At best, you've condemned an innocent soul to who knows what hellish--"

"Oh, give me a bloody break," Spike snapped. "My innocent soul's been a football for powers best not named for a hundred and twenty years and you've never given a toss before today, so let's skip the crocodile tears on its behalf now. It probably appreciates the change of scenery. If souls appreciate anything at all, which I doubt, as I can't imagine a disembodied moral compass being all that much fun at parties."

Giles failed to rise to the bait. He continued polishing his glasses and said mildly, "Spike, I realize that attempting to make you understand, much less accept the point we're trying to make here is very likely impossible. But for the sake of argument, let's grant your--" Damn it, he was not going to fall into the easy, comfortable assumption that the vampire in front of him was in any real sense a continuation of the human being who'd died in his creation over a century ago. "William's soul is no worse off than it was before. Supposing you hadn't a lovesick vampire with a spare soul conveniently at hand, Willow. How exactly did you propose to cast this purportedly harmless spell?"

If Willow scrunched any further down in bed she was going to disappear entirely beneath a pile of cushions. "Um, well, I wanted Spike to vamp me so we could call my soul back and use it. Except Spike wouldn't do it."

It was a wonder that he didn't snap his glasses in half. Giles groped blindly for a chair and sat down. "Willow... does the fact that this spell requires actions which even a creature of evil finds objectionable tell you nothing?" His head dropped wearily to one hand. "It's not that the return of one person from the dead is so evil a thing of itself. It's the things that we convince ourselves are an acceptable price to accomplish that return. Had you succeeded, what then? Would Buffy thank you for making her first duty upon her return the obligation to slay the creature you'd become? And should Tara or Xander, grieving for y_our_ death, then descend to yet more vileness to return you to life? On and on and on, horror feeding new horror?"

Willow had grown white and faint in the dim light. "But it didn't happen like that. It all turned out all right."

Tara shook her head. "Bad means make a bad end. Somewhere, somehow, this is going to come back to haunt you."

Willow's expression grew bitter. "And I suppose you'll all be like, yay, Willow's got it coming."

"No!" Tara cried. "Never! Why do you think we want you to stop and think about what you're doing?"

"I did think!" Willow yelled, rocketing up out of the pillows and then falling back in a severe coughing fit. "I thought all summer," she croaked when she could talk again. "I thought about how Buffy was the best person I ever knew. I thought about how if it wasn't for Buffy I'd be dead, or a vampire, or a twenty-year-old computer geek with no life watching everyone else I knew get killed or turned into a vampire! I thought of all the people who're gonna die because she's not here to save them and I thought about Dawn, and Spike, and you all eating your hearts out because she was gone, and you know what? I didn't do anything! Because it would be wrong! But if she was going to come back no matter what then I wanted it to be her friends that did it, not some poophead in L.A. who wants to brainwash her into being his personal Buffy action figure!"

Giles said, very softly, "Every death leaves grieving people and unfinished business. Buffy is--in the long run--no more or less  
important than anyone else. To pretend otherwise is the height of selfishness, and to use our own pain to justify causing more pain is the height of evil."

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry she's back? 'Cause I'm not!" Willow was starting to sob and Tara looked so utterly defeated that it was painful to see.

Spike's lip curled. "Oh, lay off Will, the both of you!" He exploded into a flurry of pacing in front of the bookshelves and came to a halt in a flare of black leather. "You want to blame someone, blame me. She wouldn't've gone through with it if I hadn't jollied her along." He gave Giles a narrow-eyed glare. "You asked me once, Rupert, if there mightn't be some higher purpose in this crackerjack prize I've got in my skull." He tapped his temple with one forefinger. "I laughed. I'm still laughing. Higher purpose? Bollocks. The Powers That Be don't give a flying fuck about good for its own sake. Nor evil for its own sake, come to that. It's all about balance. Creation and destruction, the Worm Ourobouros. One Slayer dies, the next is called. One vampire gets staked, another rises. We. Don't. Matter. So we might as well look out for the people we love, because the Powers won't--they'll have you up a tower chucking them into oblivion for the sake of their bloody balance. Good? Evil? Sod 'em both. I don't care about balance. I care about Buffy. And Dawn. And God help me, the rest of you pillocks. And so does Will."

"Are you quite finished?" Giles asked mildly.

"Bloody right I'm finished!" Spike snarled, heading for the door.

"Then perhaps you can explain to me why caring about Buffy means completely ignoring her wishes and returning her to a world she left voluntarily? She found peace, Spike. You and Willow stole it from her."

The vampire's face, while still human, remained quite capable of expressing demonic anger. "Cheer up, Watcher. Something with big sharp teeth'll be along in no time to give it back to her." Spike flung the door open and stormed out, slamming it behind him. There was a long uncomfortable silence; Tara reached out one tentative hand to her lover's face, but Willow turned away, avoiding her touch. A moment later a knock sounded. Tara looked at Giles, and got up to open the door again. Spike stood there, sucking on his cheeks. He held out a hand. "Blanket!"

  
*****  


Somewhere in the last few days, the tide of reality had deserted Hank, washed him up on some strange beach and left him stranded. The apartment was still the same. He still had an appointment with the realtors tomorrow morning, to put sale of the house on Revello Drive on hold. His allotment of personal time would run out and he'd be due back in L.A. in a week, and the Alpert project was still going to be sitting on his desk gathering dust because Simmons didn't have the initiative God gave a kumquat. But he was sitting in a red vinyl upholstered booth at Denny's at ten P.M. on a Friday night, and there was a vampire sitting across from him on one side and his formerly dead eldest daughter (_not_ a vampire, everyone assured him) on the other.

Buffy had a salad, which she toyed with. Spike claimed to have eaten already (Hank didn't ask what) and ordered a Budweiser after much complaining about the restaurant's alcohol selection. He kept stealing Buffy's croutons, which she had segregated on the rim of the salad plate as if they were poisonous insects. Hank had teriyaki chicken, but he couldn't taste a thing.

The demon had jumped them in the parking lot. It had been eight feet tall and purple and covered with feelers--or quills, or antennae, it was difficult to tell. It had ripped the front bumper off his car with one hand--or paw--and come after them swinging.

He'd frozen. Buffy and Spike had rolled their eyes, gotten out of the car, and killed it. Killed it with effortless grace and dispatch, left its corpse to dissolve into eerie blue flame in the handicapped space, and strolled into the restaurant still arguing about the fact that he'd recorded Passions over her mother's collection of General Hospital tapes during the summer. They weren't even breathing hard. Or in Spike's case, at all. There wasn't enough coffee in the world to allow him to deal with all this. Hank wondered, as the waitress freshened said coffee, if she had noticed the spot of green ichor on his shirt sleeve. People in Sunnydale, he'd found, purposely failed to notice a lot of things. He couldn't blame them.

He didn't know why Buffy wanted Spike here to begin with. Spike wasn't providing any clues; he slouched bonelessly in the booth, nursing his bottle of inferior American beer, a faint smirk on his angular face. His eyes never left Buffy's face for more than a moment, drinking in her presence as if it were the blood he lived by.

Buffy.

Hank hadn't seen her in almost two years. He hadn't meant that much time to slip away, but it had. She was different. Not back-from-the-dead different. Different with the inexorable accumulation of small changes that any human being acquired in two years, two years of pain and responsibility he still couldn't quite comprehend the extent of. Her hair was longer. She was dyeing it blonder now. She was much thinner than he remembered, her body all hard wiry muscle, her face overwhelmed by those huge intense eyes. They weren't his eldest daughter's eyes any longer, eyes that had lit up with glee at the Ice Capades. They were the eyes of a woman who expected life to hurt. There was tenderness in them when she looked at Dawn, and something indefinable when she looked at Spike--though she didn't look at him often; Buffy's attitude towards the vampire was that of a commander towards a trusted second. She expected him to be there. He was. No questions asked.

When she looked at her father, there was only measuring... and pity. No laughter for him in those eyes, no smiles in that generous mouth. And once again, she wasn't dead, and after two hours of explanations he still had no idea why. Hank Summers ran a hand through his hair. "I don't understand," said for the fifth or sixth time. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Buffy sighed. She folded her hands in front of her on the table and fixed him with an unnervingly steady gaze. "I don't either, Dad. But I'm here."

He rubbed his eyes and sat back to let the waitress take away his barely-touched chicken. "Buffy... I can't tell you how glad I am of that. But I don't understand why you're so obsessed with regaining custody of Dawn. You only got custody to begin with because I was out of touch. I know you love your sister. I know you feel responsible for her. If your mother laid some death-bed guilt trip on you about taking care of her, or about not letting me--"

A low, menacing rumble, as of a large carnivorous animal taking notice of something small, annoying and edible, emanated from Spike's corner of the booth. Hank looked over at him, trying to suppress the nervous twitch the sound elicited. Spike smiled at him and bit a crouton in half. Somehow even his human teeth managed to look unpleasantly sharp. Hank tried another tack. "The thing is, honey, you're not that much older than Dawn. You've got the house, and the sale of the gallery took care of the mortgage and the hospital bills your mother's insurance didn't cover...but you have no job. You have... you have no legal existence." He shook his head. "Look, I know I let you down. I let all of you down. But I'm here now, and you're my daughter too. I have a responsibility to both of you, not just Dawn. Once you get the... the back from the dead paperwork taken care of...don't you want to go back to college, at least? A college diploma is--"

"Pretty much a waste of a perfectly good sheep. Dad," Buffy said gently, "Me. Slayer. Early expiration date. The odds I'll be dead again before I graduate are so high Spock couldn't calculate them. No Slayer has ever, but ever, lived past twenty-five."

Spike stirred briefly, but said nothing. Buffy went on, "Dawn told me that the Knights of Byzantium were playing 'find the Key' all this summer, trying to unleash her power--"

"Power? Dawn? I thought you had--" This was not _fair_, damn it! Why did they keep springing these things on him?

Buffy looked disconcerted. "Me Slayer, Dawn Key." She bent over and whispered to Spike, "He doesn't know about Dawn being...?"

He shrugged. "Slipped our minds."

"Oh. Anyway, they wanted Dawn dead. And they aren't the only ones, or the worst--some of them want Dawn alive. Spike killed two Tromor demons someone sent to kidnap her in August. Dad, what are you going to do if something like our parking lot Barney shows up on your doorstep? 'Cause if you take Dawn, they will. Even if you take me and Dawn, they will-- _especially_ if you take both me and Dawn. What we went through with those guys at the factory? _Easy_, Dad. I do that sort of thing in my sleep. Can you live a life like that? If you take custody of Dawn and let the two of us move in with you, you're getting two sets of mortal enemies for the price of one. Mom did it. She hated it, but she... she coped."

"Oh, I'm sure Daddikins here can do the same," Spike drawled. "Not to mention the expensive bird he's shagging. She'll love the addition of demons to the household." He stretched, every muscle in his lean body rippling beneath the tight black t-shirt. He clasped his hands behind his head and grinned, running the tip of his tongue over his teeth. "In fact, I'm looking forward to chatting 'er up. I did promise the Bit I'd come to L.A. if she went, and she's always good for an invite. Makes you feel all tingly, dunnit, knowing old Spike can stroll into your place any time he's in the neighborhood--OW! Bloody hell, Slayer!"

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy said sweetly, as Spike examined his hand to see if the fingers still worked. "Idiot vampire ramblings aside, Dad, this is something you need to think about." She looked serious. "I'm really angry with you for not being here when we needed you. That won't go away any time soon. But... you're right, you're our father. No court in the world would give me custody now that you're back if you want to contest it. We need to think about what's best for Dawn. I'd be an idiot to try and keep you out of her life..." Her eyes dropped, and for a moment she was only twenty, and vulnerable. "Or mine. But take a good look at the parking lot and tell me if you're ready to have us in _your_ life full time."

Hank waited until she looked up again and met her eyes. "Ready? No. Who could possibly be ready for something like this?" He spread both hands flat on the table and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter if I'm ready or not, does it? It's here. You're here." He glanced at Spike. _Your... whatever the hell he is... is here._ "Dawn doesn't want to move, and whatever she thinks, I don't really take maniacal joy in ruining her life. If you really think you can handle taking care of her on your own... I'm willing to give it a try. Just remember you don't have to be completely on your own. I'm willing to help out any way I can. You'll be getting the child support checks for her from my bank, same as Joyce used to." He managed a smile. "I'll even spring for tuition if you decide to try for that diploma after all."

Buffy swallowed, as if she hadn't expected this reaction. "Wow. Thanks. I'll have to reconsider my spare-the-sheep position."

Spike wandered onto the outside patio for a cigarette while they were busy at the cash register, and Hank watched Buffy watching him through the multiple shadowy reflections in the plate glass window, none of which were Spike's. "Hon..."

For the last two days he'd watched her drifting from one room of the apartment to the next as if hunting for something she'd lost, her eyes moving ceaselessly from object to object. Now and again she'd pick something up--a toothbrush, a magazine, a ball-point pen. It didn't seem to matter what it was; she'd stare at it in puzzlement and turn it over and over in her hands, as if she were trying to re-learn all the shapes of things. She was watching Spike like that now, with an intense, focused concentration. At last she started and looked up at him questioningly. "Yeah, Dad?"

He nodded at Spike. "Why's he here? Not just here, now, but..." He waved a hand. "In your life at all? I'll be honest, that's the main thing I worry about all this. I just don't like him."

For a moment Buffy's laugh was almost the carefree giggle he remembered. "You're not alone. I don't even like him half the time. But..." Hank wondered if she realized just how much her eyes softened as she spoke. "I trust him. He was the only one I could trust all the way there for awhile." A small smile curved her lips. "Besides, he's like the cat in that song. He just won't leave. Believe me, I've tried."

Hank took his credit card back from the cashier and tucked it away in his wallet. He wasn't entirely reassured. Buffy went ahead of him on the way out, and through the glass, darkly, he saw Spike turn, his lean sardonic face lighting up at her approach. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette, scattering orange sparks across the asphalt, and opened the door for her. Hank honestly expected to see her take the vampire's arm; it would have been the most natural followup in the world. Spike didn't offer, though, and Buffy didn't seem to expect anything of the sort. They walked out to the car and surveyed the damage to his front end. As they passed the smouldering carcass of the purple demon, it struck him for the first time what a little guy Spike really was, as small for a man as Buffy was for a woman.

Somehow that failed to make either of them a whit less intimidating.

Buffy, hands on hips, kicked his dislocated bumper with one high-heeled foot. "You have Triple A, right?"

  
*****  


They left Hank to wait for the tow truck, and walked down the dark quiet streets shoulder to shoulder. Downtown Sunnydale wasn't large enough to bother calling a cab for. Buffy wasn't going anywhere in particular, and Spike seemed content to follow her lead. He didn't say much, which was a relief. Summoning up several hours' worth of concentration to deal with her father had drained her. It was so difficult to _focus_. She still felt like a ghost, unconnected with the world around her, and the world wasn't helping.

With her feet on autopilot it wasn't surprising that they ended up on Revello Drive. The house at 1630 was dark and silent, the lawn dry and brown from a summer's neglect. The realtors seemed to have kept it mown short, at least. Buffy stopped at the foot of the walk and looked up at her bedroom window.

"Better view over there," Spike said, pointing to the bush a little further on with his cigarette.

Buffy snorted. "Ooh. Stalking advice from the pros." She started up the walk. Spike followed her. The porch seemed big and empty and echoing with all of her mother's potted plants gone. She peered in the nearest window, but it was too dark inside to see how much of the furniture was left. She stroked the window frame with one hand. "This isn't right," she said, perplexed. "This was blue. They repainted it." She gave a despairing little moan, feeling irrationally betrayed. "Why did they repaint the house? It looked fine the way it was!"

She folded slowly down onto the porch steps, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I can't believe they repainted the... my house. And Dad's back and Dawn's t-taller than I am, and--" And all of a sudden she was shivering uncontrollably, curled into a tight defensive ball on the steps. "I can't do this! I don't know how to--"

There was the light pressure of a hand on her shoulders. It disappeared, then returned with a little more confidence. Spike sat down beside her, and she had a weird flash of deja vu. Then she remembered that she really had lived through this moment before, except this time Spike wasn't lugging a shotgun. The thought made her dissolve into hysterical giggles. The hand on her shoulder made another hesitant movement, and she heard Spike make a sound which could only be described as a to-hell-with-it sigh. His arm slipped round her shoulders. "Cry it out, pet."

She was about to say that she was laughing, not crying, but the desperate noise in her throat could have been either, and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't cry for long, only a few choked, terrible sobs with her face buried in his shoulder, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. Not even a real hug; more as if he were a rock she were clinging to in a rough sea. In a way he was. The world had gone on without her, but Spike hadn't changed. He wasn't older or taller or wearing weird new clothes, and all right, he needed to touch up his roots but she'd forgive him that just this once and he still smelled like leather and smoke and earth...

Realizing her face was still smashed into his shoulder, Buffy straightened up self-consciously and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Oh, yay, she thought, rubbing at the smears of mascara with her thumb, hello Raccoon Woman. "Sorry," she said, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get salt water all over the leather."

Spike let go of her without hesitation--much hesitation, anyway--and glanced down at his duster. "It's seen worse." He watched her for a moment, and at last, satisfied that she wasn't going to collapse again, lit another cigarette. Silence stretched between them as the minutes passed; he smoked thoughtfully and she stared at the cracks in the front walk. Once or twice his arm brushed hers as he removed the cigarette from his mouth to exhale, and Buffy found herself thinking almost wistfully that if this were some other guy on some other night it would be nice to be able to lean on his shoulder for more than one brief weak-willed moment. It was a very comfortable shoulder.

"Buffy... I'm sorry."

She pulled her hair back from her face and twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck. "What?"

"Shouldn't've done it. Helped Will bring you back." He ran his free hand through his hair. Spike was still supporting the Southern California hair gel industry single-handed, Buffy noted, but he hadn't gone back to keeping it slicked completely flat. Spike had curly hair. Who'd've thunk? "I hate it when Rupert's right," he muttered.

She bit down on her thumbnail and was silent for a while. "No. You shouldn't have. Why did you?"

"How many people have I killed, Slayer?" He didn't wait for an answer, but continued, "Twelve or fifteen thousand, I figure. Not a record. Not even close." The whiskey-and-sugar rasp of his voice was hypnotic. "But enough. I'm not going to try and convince you I care deeply about each and every one, 'cause I don't, but just the once, I had the chance to give life instead of taking it. How often does a bloke get to do that, barring failure to make sure Little Willie's wearing his raincoat? And that last's not a situation yours truly's ever going to have to worry about."

Buffy blew out her cheeks and looked up, studying the way the light from the street lamp played chiaroscuro games across the planes and angles of his face. She could never forget what Spike was. Spike never let her forget, and in a way she was grateful for that. "Tell you what: I forgive you. But third time's the charm. Next time I go, I want you to promise me I won't come back."

He didn't answer immediately. After a long, considering moment he nodded, his pale killer's eyes fixed on her with frightening seriousness, and held out his hand. "Done." Buffy quelled a residual shiver as she took it; it was no light thing to extract a promise from a demon to make certain you stayed dead. They shook on it. His hand--large for someone his size--engulfed hers, his grip cool and light but very firm, a subtle reminder that Spike was almost as strong as she was.

"I just don't know how I'm going to put everything back together," Buffy said, her voice very low. "I don't feel like I belong anywhere any longer." She looked down at the steps they were seated on, tracing her fingers over the cement where it was worn smooth with years of passing feet.

"Ah, well, I know a little about that. I'm a vampire. I get off on killing people. It's my sodding purpose in the universe to be a force of death and destruction. And I can't _do_ it any more. You've ruined me for it, the lot of you--" He gave a derisive snort, blowing smoke through his nostrils. "No. I've ruined myself. I'm not evil anymore. I'm just... not good, and neither heaven nor hell will claim me." He shrugged. "You get used to it, after awhile."

She smiled a wan little smile. "What, no 'It'll get better?'"

His laugh cut through the sable night. "Better, Slayer?"

She couldn't help a smile. "Oh. Right. Who am I talking to? How do you do it, Spike?"

"Do what?"

She made a vague gesture with one hand. "This. Going on. Dad asked me why you were here, and I told him you just wouldn't go away. No matter how many times the world kicked your ass, you just bounced back again." _After Dru left him, the Initiative chipped him, the demon population of Sunnydale turned on him, I disinvited him, Glory all but tore him to shreds... and I died._ Damn it, it wasn't her fault he'd fallen in love with her. She knew, looking into those eyes, feeling the barely perceptible tremor in his body when they touched, of the control he was exerting to keep from just grabbing her and... no, don't go there, Buffy. That was something else that hadn't changed. On either side. "When I think about it you've had just about as sucky a last couple of years as I have."

He cocked an eyebrow and took another drag on his cigarette, chuckling. "I wouldn't say bounced back, love. More like crawled. But y'know..." He grinned suddenly, ground out his cigarette and bounced to his feet. "C'mere. I want to show you something."

He stuck out his hand again and she took it, curious. He helped her to her feet and took off down the walk, cutting across the dry dead grass to the bush where he used to stand, night after night, staring up at her window. He stood behind her and placed both (large, very strong) hands on her shoulders, turning her away from the house to face across the street to where the streetlamp poured out its cone of golden light on the pavement below. "Look up there," he whispered, pointing. "See?"

In the lamplight were dozens of tiny moths blundering about the glowing bulb, a whirling, dancing, spinning cloud. "I used to stand out here and watch sometimes when you'd gone to bed. It's a lot like life, that. We're all flying around, no idea where we're going or what it's all about, just knowing that there's something glowing and glorious and bloody _effulgent_ just out... of... reach." He'd drawn closer with each word she felt the cool, whisper-light brush of his breath travel from her ear and across her cheek. "And then BANG!" Spike clapped his hands together in front of her nose and jumped back, laughing as she started and shrieked. "You smack into a glass wall and you're ass over teakettle into the dark again."

"Spike, you asshole!" she yelled, swinging wildly.

Spike dodged the half-hearted blow easily, still laughing. "I felt for the little buggers. They're dying up there. But from down here... look at 'em!"

Buffy stared up at the flickering cloud of insects. "I don't get it."

His laughter had devolved into a deep-down contented growl that was almost a purr. "You always were a bit thick, Slayer. What's to get? It's beautiful, innit?"

"Bugs keep you going?"

"No, nitwit. I wasn't just larking about that time I told you I liked the world. It's got... bugs, and street lamps, and they look bloody marvelous if you just look at 'em the right way." For a moment his voice changed and he sounded young, earnest, almost shy. "In the midst of death, it's a beautiful world, Slayer."

Buffy stared at him, trying to figure out what, if anything, she could say in response to that, when she felt a familiar tingle along her nerves. A dark figure was staggering towards them across the neighbor's lawn, golden eyes flashing cat-green in the lamplight, fangs bared. Vampire, new risen, probably hadn't fed yet, drawn irresistibly to the scent of the nearest fresh human blood...

"Beauty, and killing things," Spike said reflectively. "I think that about covers it." He looked down at her, then over at the approaching vampire with a wolf-grin, and extended a courtly arm. "Shall we, Slayer?"

For some reason words she'd said to another vampire, years ago, flitted through her head: _When I kiss you, I want to die_. For all that she often felt like killing _him_, she couldn't ever remember feeling like dying when Spike was around. A smile curved her lips, and she felt around inside her purse for a stake. "Yeah. We shall. Come on, Spike, let's go."  


The End!


End file.
